


Agon + Eilonwy

by Ovipositivity



Category: Original Work
Genre: Armor Kink, Cunnilingus, Eldritch Knight, F/M, Fantasy, Fellatio, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Oral Sex, Orcs, Size Difference, Size Kink, Sorceress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: Agon the eldritch knight rescues Eilonwy the sorceress from certain death in the forest. The two of them seek a place they can call home.Characters and all illustrations by Yanastyboi, https://twitter.com/yanastyboii





	1. Chapter 1

There’d been pain, when Eilonwy lost her eyes. Terrible pain and an inexorable _pressure_ , the feeling that any moment her head might burst like an overripe melon. The sudden darkness had come with a sense of palpable relief. The pain was not just physical-- the shouts of the villagers, her _friends_ and _family,_ had hounded her into the woods. She had not thought that anything could hurt more than the loss of her eyes, but the sound of Joss the baker screaming “Witch!” had been a dagger in her heart. She’d bought a loaf from him not three hours before. And Marelda, who’d been her best friend since childhood… worst of all was her mother’s voice, shrill and fearful. “Witch!” they’d chanted. “Witch! Avaunt! Avaunt!”

So she’d fled. What else was there to do? Stumbling, weeping blood from her ruined sockets, she’d run as fast and as far as her legs would take her. She made for the woods out of some half-remembered childhood fable. That was where the Wicked Things dwelt, and in the eyes of her community, she was now Wicked. She would go there and live in the shade under the ancient, gnarled oaks, and she’d… what?

She had no plan. There had been no time. One second she was waiting in line at the well, the next she could feel the power rising inside her again, only it was too _much_ , far too much this time, and she had nowhere to hide and wait for it to bleed out. She’d screamed and screamed while crackling arcs of corposant wreathed her limbs and earthed themselves against the iron hitching post.

She thought that was when her eyes had gone.

She splashed through the stream that bordered the village, soaking her legs to the knees. She hadn’t dressed for this, and soon her thin cotton dress was plastered to her thighs. She was out of breath by the time she reached the edge of the forest, but deep-down survival instinct told her that she had to keep going. As long as she could feel the sun at her back, she wasn’t safe. The villagers might be in shock now, but their fear would soon curdle into hatred, and if they found her they would burn her. And as much as she hurt now, she wasn’t ready to die.

She had to slow down, though. The forest here was thick and primordial. The villagers preferred to get their lumber from a grove at the top of the hill; they spoke in hushed tones of the forest spirits, the _hexen_ and the boggarts and the _schattensoldat_ . Knights of the Last War, they called them, the shadow-soldiers, bound eternally into their armor, great clanking things that towered over the tallest man and ate human flesh. Eilonwy had never seen one, but she knew they were there as surely as she knew that the sun rose in the east, or water flowed downhill, or that the Book of Right Living taught _you shall not suffer a witch to live_.

She knew all that. But she _wasn’t_ a witch. She didn’t know how she knew, or even what it meant, but she knew it in her bones. She wanted to live. So she took a few deep breaths and forced herself to slow down. Her head was still pounding and throbbing and she felt a warm wetness trickling down her cheeks that was not tears, but she forced herself to slow to a walk. If she ran headfirst into a tree and knocked herself out, that would be it for her. She could still hear the roar of the mob, but it was curiously muted, as though by stepping into the forest she had entered some kind of bubble. She paused and tore a strip of fabric from her dress. It was soaked with cool water from the stream, and she hissed in pain as she tied it around her eyes, but she found that the pressure and coolness helped. A little.

The power was still inside her, she could feel it, but it was ebbing. It seemed to pulse out of her like blood from a fresh wound. With each step, each breath, she felt it weakening. As it drained out of her, fatigue poured in. She paused for a moment to lean against a tree. She struggled for breath, but she couldn’t seem to fill her lungs. How long had it been? It felt like hours, but she couldn’t even track her progress by the sun in the sky. Was it getting cooler? She couldn’t tell.

Birds twittered overhead and in that moment hatred filled Eilonwy. It was pure, primal, wholly irrational. She was trapped in a cage of darkness while these birds were free. They could go anywhere, do anything. They could see the world in all its summer splendor. She clenched her fists and _willed_ them dead.

The song cut off abruptly. A moment later there was a quiet pattering, as of rain on a thatched roof. Eilonwy let out a choked gasp and raised her hand to her mouth. Guilt welled up inside her, guilt so powerful that it momentarily displaced her misery and fear. “I’m sorry!” she wailed. “I didn’t mean it!”

Nobody responded. She was alone.

She trudged onward. The only sounds were birdsong and the wind in the branches overhead. She found a stick at one point and used it to feel her way forward, but it was slow and tenuous going, and more than once she had to back up and reroute herself. She quickly lost all sense of direction. Was she heading back to the village? _Who cares_ , she thought dully. _Let them kill me. It’ll be quick, at least_. She kept moving, though, one foot in front of the other, until she could move no more. She was more exhausted than she’d ever been, her head throbbed, her eyes burned, and her heart was cracked in two. She sank to her knees and curled up into a ball on the loamy forest floor. Oblivion beckoned.

\--

Agon walked. He walked and saw. Many walks, each day. Many times seeing. It was his Purpose. To walk and see. To see and walk. Small lives saw Agon, and walked away fast. If they did not, he fulfilled his other Purpose.

He dwelt in the Place. Walking the Place was his Purpose. The Place was part of the Purpose, and you could not have one without the other. In his more philosophical moments, Agon wondered if his Purpose could exist in another Place. But of course that was foolishness. There was only this Place.

He walked every day. That was part of the Purpose, too. Always the same walk. He had counted the days, once. That had not been part of his Purpose, but he did it anyways. He did not know if the Others did that, as well. He had seen Others, once. Before he received his Purpose. Before his Creator had left him in place. He did not speak to them, and they did not speak to him. Did they count? He did not know. In any case, he had lost count ages ago. Sometime after one hundred thousand. Now, he just walked.

This walk was like every other walk. He saw and was seen. The small lives fled before him. He did not pursue. That was not his Purpose.

Then, all at once, this walk was not like other walks. There was… something, in the Place. Someone. He stopped short and stared through his visor. At first, he thought what he was seeing was merely part of the Place; a new type of toadstool, perhaps. But it wasn’t. It was… it was…

An Other.

Well, he knew what to do with Others. That was part of his Purpose. His jaw unhinged and his long black tongue slid out from between fetid lips. He raised his arms and took a step forward. The Other was within arm’s reach, and not even moving. It would be the easiest thing in the world to--

It whimpered.

Agon froze.

It was high-pitched, that whimper. A feminine sound, not a cry of pain-- he had heard enough of those in his time-- but the merest whisper of discomfort. It stayed his hand for just a moment, but in that moment he sniffed, and he smelled Her. The Other. Her scent filled his nostrils, her blood and fear and sorrow, and something below those that shone like a pearl in muck. He stood statue-still for a long time. It was hard to tell what, if anything, he was thinking, but he seemed to come to a decision. His tongue retreated and his visor dropped into place. He bent and scooped up the pale white bundle with delicate care.

Agon’s memory was a fragmented thing at the best of times, like a china dish shattered and mended by inexpert hands. But that voice… and that scent… they touched something inside of him, something buried, a rare coin in the dross of his soul. If he owned such a thing. He had, once…

In any case, he had been walking and seeing for too long. Perhaps there was more than one Purpose.

Eilonwy shifted in her sleep, and Agon gently laid her head into the crook of his elbow. Then he turned and headed for home.

 


	2. A Time for Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy recuperates in (relative) safety

In the cool dampness of the cave, Eilonwy drifted.

_She was three years old. She sat on her mother’s knee, and no cushion had ever been as soft. Her mother had a book open on her lap, an old one with big colored woodcuts. Eilonwy jabbed a stubby finger at the page._

_“Who’s her, mama?”_

_“She’s a witch, Eilonwy,” her mother said. “A very bad lady. She likes to eat naughty children who don’t do their chores. She eats them up!”_

_Eilonwy shrieked, more out of childlike wonder than true fear. She clutched her mama tight. “She won’t eat me, right mama?”_

_"Of course not, sweetling,” her mother said, running one hand through Eilonwy’s hair. “She only eats bad children, and you’re the best little girl in the whole world.”_

She shifted in her sleep. Her dress, torn and soaked as it was, was barely up to the task of keeping her warm. Something moved in the cave and then there was a _whoomph_ and a sudden roar of light and heat.

_She was seven years old, and playing in a field with Beatrice. Beatrice was one of her very best friends. Today, the two of them were playing Chase-and-Catch. It wasn’t really a fun game with two people, but that was ok. The sun was shining overhead and the summer air was filled with the smell of daisies._

_“Caught you!” Beatrice yelled, and both girls collapsed in a fit of giggles. Once they had recovered, Beatrice put her hands on her hips. “Now you’re the ogre and I’m the princess!”_

_“You better run!” Eilonwy shouted in her best ogre voice. “I’m gonna gobble you up!”_

_Beatrice ran, and Eilonwy followed. The other girl’s legs were longer, though, and she drew farther and farther ahead. Eilonwy strained to fill her lungs. She would never reach Beatrice. She’d never--_

_She reached out, not with her hands but with her mind, and_ pushed _. Beatrice tripped, a comical look of surprise on her face, and fell straight forward into the flowers. A moment later she began to bawl._

Eilonwy’s mouth was so dry. It was all she could think about. She was swimming in a dark, endless sea, and yet her mouth was dry. With a monumental effort of will, she forced her parched lips to open. Just slightly, just a crack, but it was enough. Something cool and damp pressed against her mouth and she felt water, blessed water, trickle across her tongue. She swallowed with a little _urk_ and felt the coolness blossom in her belly.

_She was ten years old and gathering frogs. They were silly little things, squishy and soft, and croaked in indignation as she dropped them in her basket._

_A shadow fell over her. Hans, the biggest boy in the village, looked down with a sneer on his face. “What have you got there?” he asked. “Frogs? What kind of girl collects frogs? Why don’t you go play with your dollies?”_

_“Leave me alone, Hans,” she said, but without much conviction. She’d known what he was going to do from the moment she saw his face. He planted a muddy hand on her forehead and shoved, and she fell backwards, her nice petticoat squishing in the shallow water of the pond. With his other hand he grabbed her basket and tipped it over. The frogs chirruped as they swam away._

_Eilonwy sat there with water soaking her bottom and set her lower lip. She was_ angry _, so angry, and all at once she felt it burst out of her in an invisible spear. A thin trickle of blood leaked out of Hans’s nostril. He crossed his eyes and drew one shaking finger across his lip, then fell over backwards with a splash._

_She wailed in terror and ran all the way home._

Her eyes hurt. No, worse than hurt: they _burned_. The pain was still so raw. Something was pressing on them, something ragged and filthy. Eilonwy flailed in the darkness, but her limbs were weak, so weak. Tears carved tracks through the grime on her cheeks. Then she felt strong, thick fingers peeling away the ragged covering and replacing it with something smooth and cool and damp.

_She was thirteen, and scared out of her wits. It was happening again. It had been nearly a season since the last time, and she’d thought she’d grown out of it, like the pimple next to her lip. But it was back. She ran, ran as fast as her legs could carry her, and didn’t stop running until she made it to the ice-house by the river. At this time of year it was deserted and empty. She slammed the wooden door behind her and threw herself onto the packed-earth floor._

_The power rose up inside her like it always did. Sometimes it felt like a wave she was riding, and sometimes an avalanche that threatened to carry her away. It wasn’t so bad, this time. Her limbs stiffened as energy sparked across them. It came with a blinding headache and a sense of pins and needles in her whole body. She moaned and thrashed across the floor of the shed for what felt like hours, but when she finally dragged herself to her feet and pushed open the door, the sun had barely moved across the sky. Her skin was drenched in sweat and she had cracked a fingernail down to the quick, but she was alive, and the dreadful storm had passed her by. Again._

She swam up out of the memory with tears drying on her cheeks. There was darkness all around her, but this wasn’t the darkness of sleep. She raised one trembling hand to her eyes and felt the wet cloth wrapped around them. It felt like part of her dress. Something lay atop her, something soft and furry and musky, and her questing hands found a flat blanket of fur-- a pelt, perhaps a deer or beaver. Somewhere to the left of her a fire crackled. She could feel its heat against her skin.

Her stomach gurgled loudly and she groaned. She was weak, so weak, and so hungry. Something moved, somewhere above her. She wasn’t sure how she could tell-- a change in air pressure, maybe, a faint breeze against her skin. Fear gripped her. Where was she? Was she alone? She tried to cry out, but her voice would not come.

The savory smell of cooked meat filled her nostrils and she felt something warm at her lips. She opened them as far as she could, which was just far enough for her unseen companion to tip a bowl up and pour a few spoonfuls of soup into her mouth. Luckily, her throat worked enough to swallow them down. The little splash of food into her stomach just showed her how hungry she really was, and she slurped greedily at the bowl. Her host was patient and let her sputter and sip her way through it. When it was finally all gone, the bowl retreated, and something cold and hard laid itself against her forehead. It felt like an iron bar, but it didn’t press down, just laid gently on her.

She wanted to thank whoever had fed her, to ask one of a million questions, but the meal had taken all of her energy and she could feel unconsciousness rising to claim her.

 _She was nineteen and standing in line at the village well. Marelda was behind her, nattering away about this or that-- her betrothed, the sword he was forging, the house they’d build together. Eilonwy tried to listen, but Marelda’s voice drained away. All she could hear now was a roar like a flooding river, the thudding of her heartbeat._ Not again, _she thought_. Not here. Not now.

_It would not be denied. The power blew up inside her, filling her limbs, her head, her mouth. She screamed and threw her head back. More kept coming, more, more, more than she’d ever had before, more than she could take. It seized her, wrenched her body around, bust forth from her fingertips and toes. It shone out of her eyes and mouth as though she’d swallowed a lantern. There was a moment of terrible pain and the world went dark._

Eilonwy awoke with a start. Her heart was racing. The fire had burned down to embers. Its dying warmth caressed her like a desert wind. Something in the air told her it was nighttime. Was it the temperature? The dampness? She couldn’t be certain.

She wasn’t alone in here. That much, she knew. Someone had fed her and covered her and changed her dressing. Where was she? Was she even still in the woods? She licked her lips and then spoke in a tiny voice. “H-hello? Who’s there?”

From out of the darkness, something growled.


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy meets her rescuer

“H-hello?”  
  
Eilonwy wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep. She’d awakened several times in pain and hunger and thirst, but the transition between restful dream and waking nightmare had been seamless. The pain was everywhere, but gradually it receded like the tide, and all the sensations that it had been hiding from her swept back in: hunger, thirst, cold, fear.

Fear most of all.

She had collapsed in the woods, of that she was certain. Exhaustion and the skull-splitting pain in her eyes had done her in. And, just as certain, she wasn’t there now. Someone had gathered her up and taken her somewhere new: fed her, covered her, changed her bandages. Who lived in the woods? Witches, for sure, but they would not have treated her so gently. She tried to recall the tales Mama had told her. There were kindly old hermits, right? And woodsmen who saved lost maidens from hungry wolves? Perhaps that was it.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

She was still growing used to blindness. She kept reaching her hand up to the bandage wrapped around her forehead. It was an automatic gesture-- the one time she had tried to remove it, the pain in her eyes had turned to agony and she’d cried out and fallen back. She thought back to that terrible moment when the river inside her had burst its banks and the world had gone dark. Would she be blind forever? She prayed that she would not, but she held out little hope.

Still, she was alive. The Book of Right Living taught that _every day of life is a gift, and every gift deserves a thank-you._ She silently thanked the gods and spirits for her deliverance. They had put this poison in her soul, but they had also saved her from being eaten by wolves and bears and boggarts, so perhaps they still had a plan for her.

“My name is Eilonwy. Who are you?”  
  
The only answer was a low growl. It rippled out of the darkness, the wet purr of a predator, a throat-sound from no human throat. She should have been terrified, she knew, and yet inside she was curiously calm. Perhaps she had lost her capacity for fear. The rational part of her mind told her that the kindly woodsman who had rescued her had a dog. That made sense-- the woods were dangerous, as everyone knew. He would need protection. Perhaps that was how he had found her.

“Is your master home?” she asked. It was a foolish question, but she was feeling somewhat light-headed. She tried to push herself into a seated position, failed, and slumped back. She was lying in a cradle of sorts, a bowl-shaped depression in the stone. Her fingers crept along the edges. It felt raw and unworked. Perhaps she was in a cave? A few pelts lined the bottom, but it was not terribly comfortable even with them in place. It was large, too, much larger than her, and she felt a brief thrill of fear. If she was in someone’s bed, that someone was a giant.   
  
The effort of moving and speaking even that little amount had tired her out. Her body was healing, she knew, and for that it needed rest. She didn’t want to fall asleep again with so many of her questions unanswered, but it didn’t seem that it was up to her one way or the other.

\--

Agon sat and watched. The Other was curled up in his bed. That was good. He had smelled the damage on her when he found her in the woods, and though she was healing she still stank of the death that had almost claimed her. Her worst wounds were her eyes, but she had others all over, rents and scrapes from sharp branches and burns where the magic had bled out of her.

She called out and he tried to answer, but it was hard to remember how to make the words. So hard. He had known so many words, once… but remembering that hurt. There were rooms in his mind that were locked and barred with chains of agony, and he had learned over the years that some thoughts it was safer not to think. The words would come to him if he waited. He had nothing to do but wait.

Her breathing changed, and he could tell she was asleep. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward. His great fingers clenched and unclenched. He waited until he could force his trembling fists open, then reached out for her hair. His hand froze inches away from her. He had not touched an Other without his armor on in… many days. He did not know how many. Counting was another thing that was hard.

Agon stood as still as a statue for long minutes, then sighed with a sound like the stoking of a furnace. Slowly, ever so slowly, he ran his fingers through her hair.

It was so soft! He marveled at the feeling, like cornsilk between his fingers. She was such a tiny thing. He had to be very careful not to crush her. Hateful instinct deep inside him told him how delicious she looked, how ripe. _Eat her, Agon, eat her up_ cackled a voice that was not his. He ignored it. This Other was not for eating. She was for… was for… something he didn’t know and couldn’t articulate, but something greater, some pure purpose that made his heart feel light.

He gently laid his palm against her back and pushed. She made a tiny sound, something between a whimper and a moan, but did not awaken. With that same care, Agon climbed into his cradle and nestled her in the hollow of his body. She twitched in her sleep and her head fell to one side, spilling a waterfall of golden hair across his arm. He laid his other arm across her knees and rested his head next to hers. They fit so perfectly into each other’s bodies; he marveled at the warmth of her, the pale softness of her limbs. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

\--

Eilonwy awoke from a dream of summer to find warmth all around her. At first she did not realize what was happening. She stretched groggily and her mouth opened in a tendon-twanging yawn. She felt better than she had in days.

When she tried to shift, she felt something heavy laying across her, and only then did she start to worry.

“It’s… warm…” she murmured to herself, still half-asleep. Her fingers reached out into the darkness.

There was someone in bed with her, someone gigantic. If it was a woodsman, he must have had giant’s blood. The arm curled around her legs was thicker than her thigh, and with a start she realized her head was resting on a chest as broad as a bedstead. Again, she felt that curious lack of fear. _If he meant me harm, I would have come to harm by now_ , she reasoned. _He must be a friend_. Her fingers closed around a wrist the size of her calf, traced along the arm to its rumpled sleeve, felt up the chest towards the collar. Lank, greasy hair hung down to her rescuer’s shoulders. She wriggled slightly to free herself from his grasp so she could feel more. His breath gusted out at her with a hint of a growl, and she froze, but no further sounds were forthcoming.

Her fingers found his chin, and she frowned. His skin felt strange. It was hard and dry, like a callus, but curiously warm. She ran her hand across his jaw and marveled at the size of him. _He truly is a giant_. Then her fingertips brushed against hard enamel.

She paused and ran her hand back and forth. Cold panic welled up inside her. She wanted to be wrong, _willed_ herself to be wrong, but she could not deny what she was feeling. “Oh, gods,” she murmured to herself, “that’s _teeth_.”

All at once she remembered the scariest tales of her childhood. “The boggarts will chase you, my dear,” her mama had said, “and the _hexen_ will fool you with their witchlights. But the worst beast of the forest is the _schattensoldat_ . He looks like a man, only gigantic, and all of shadow. He watches you from the dark glades and silent thickets, and when he is hungry, he _strikes!_ His mouth is full of fangs and his heart is full of hunger, hunger for little girls and boys who stray too deeply into his domain!”

Eilonwy had never doubted it for a second. And what else could this be? The fangs she was feeling were the size of her fingers. She snatched her hand away and the creature in bed with her groaned in its sleep. It was impossible to mistake this for anything but what it was: the throat-growl of a hunter. Eilonwy shivered with fear. It was saving her for its larder, no doubt.

She barely dared to breathe as she pulled herself free from its clutches. Her limbs were stiff and clumsy, but she managed to slip out of the crook of its arm. She clambered over the edge of the bed and her feet thunked down onto a cold stone floor. A cave, then, the lair of the beast. She could feel a cool wind on her face from somewhere to her left, so that is where she headed, picking her way across the uneven ground with hands and feet. She moved slowly, both seeking obstacles and hoping not to wake her captor. It took five minutes for her to reach the cave mouth, five of the longest minutes of her life. Her heart was thudding in her ears so loudly that she was shocked that the _schattensoldat_ didn’t hear it.

At last a change in the texture of the air told her she was outside. She could hear birdsong and the wind in the trees, and feel leafmould beneath her feet. She walked away from the cave as fast as she could, and before long, she was running.


	4. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agon saves Eilonwy's life for the second time in a week

Eilonwy ran. She had no clear destination, no sense of direction, and certainly no plan. Sheer terror gripped her heart and turned it inside out and panic gave her wings. By sheer luck she managed to avoid braining herself on a low-hanging branch long enough for her rational mind to reassert itself. Slowly, slowly, she came to a stop and rested against a tree. This, she reflected, was no way for a blind lady to behave.

It felt like some kind of dreadful nightmare. Twice now in the past few days she had been driven out into the forest. Was this to be her life now? Fleeing endlessly from place to place, stumbling blind from mortal danger to mortal danger? Not for the first time, she wondered if it wouldn’t have just been kinder to let the villagers kill her.

She could not allow herself to wallow in self-pity. Despite everything, she still found she wanted to live, and bemoaning her rotten luck was a luxury she could ill afford. If she was ever going to change her fortunes, she had to take control of her own destiny. She groped around in the dirt until she found another stick. Thus equipped, she felt her way forward.

Her thoughts kept going back to her mysterious rescuer. He was a  _ schattensoldat _ , she knew that now, and she had been  _ right _ to flee. Hadn’t she? His apparent kindness had been a trap. Forest spirits were like that, she knew. Like the witchlights that led travelers into bogs and quicksand, they could appear as friends before showing their true colors. But she had been helpless in his power, and still he had not eaten her. Why not? Was he saving her for a worse fate?

_ Why am I thinking of it as he? It’s an  _ it _! _

Her hands went to the dressing over her eyes. It was cool and smooth. The monster had changed her bandage and fed her hot soup. Why?  _ Why _ ?

She had no answers, but she couldn’t stop asking herself the questions. It felt like she was probing a loose tooth with her tongue. She was one of the monsters now, she realized. Witches gnawed on children’s bones and used their magic to torture the innocent. But she didn’t want to do  _ any _ of those things. Why should she? 

A week ago, she would never have considered any of these questions. A lot had changed for her. In a way, she realized, she was free. The worst thing that could possibly happen to her had happened, and she was not dead. Yet.

Her musings were interrupted by a strange sound. A snuffling, chuffing sort of sound, like a pig rooting at truffles. With it came a gust of foul wind like the opening of an ancient grave. She heard a heavy  _ thud _ and the sound of wood creaking and cracking. The temperature dropped noticeably, as though she had stepped into a deep shadow. Somewhere far overhead she heard a wet, burbling growl. A blast of hot breath washed over her and made her gag. She smelled sour sweat and the stale reek of old gore. Without realizing it, she drew her hands around herself and shrank back.

“H-hello?” she quavered.

\--

Agon awoke and at once he knew something was wrong.

She-- Eilonwy, she was named Eilonwy-- was gone. She was  _ gone _ . He could smell the faint trace of her, but it was already fading. The hollow of his body was empty. He stared dully at the space where she had been, as though doing so would make her reappear. She was  _ gone _ . He had failed in his Purpose.

Something blossomed inside him. It was not something new, but something very, very old… so old, he had forgotten what it felt like. It seized his heart and pulsed lightning along his corroded nerves. It twisted his fingers and gnarled his thoughts.    
  
It was fear.

He inhaled deeply and his eyes shot open. There: the trace of her, a silver thread hanging in midair. It was as ephemeral as a cobweb, but he could see it now even with his eyes closed. A trail. He growled deep in his throat and unfolded his massive, lanky body from the cradle. First he would put on his armor, and then he would go and reclaim what was his.

His eyes fell on the hand-and-a-half sword resting against the wall of the cave. He did not always carry it with him when he walked, but he reached for it now. 

Oh, yes.

\--

Eilonwy tried to shrink back against the nearest tree. Her whole world was dark, but she could feel a deeper darkness looming over her. It pulsed and throbbed like a diseased heart. More than that, she could hear its glottal exhalations, smell the charnel stink of its breath. It smelled like a corpse that had torn its way free from the Quiet Lands and returned to stalk to living. More than that, she could smell its hatred. It fizzed and crackled in her nostrils, a malice so profound that it rolled off the thing like steam from a hot bath. The weight of its regard pressed down on her. She found herself grateful in these last moments of her life for her blindness. She would not have to see the horror that would end her. If she did, she knew, she would scream. She preferred to face her end with dignity.

Something brushed against her hair, something hard and sharp, and then there was a gust of wind and a terrible thunderclap. And then the world exploded.

\--

Tracking her was child’s play. Agon followed her silver thread out of the cave and along the ridge. It curved downward, past the ancient trilithon, and then hooked sharply right the follow the brook. His great armored feet splashed in the shallow creekbed while the water jumped and laughed around them and tiny fish gaped in awe at their monstrous guest.

As he moved he picked up speed. He had not moved faster than a walk in many days, but now urgency tugged at his strings and whipped him onward. One hand kept going to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet. He turned one more corner and the pure, lovely smell of her filled his nostrils. Mixed in with it was another scent: the coppery reek of old blood and tarnished bronze. He knew that smell. And he knew what it meant. 

He broke into a run.

His great iron-shod feet trampled bushes and split saplings in two. Panicked birds fled before his high-crested helm. He ran head-first through branches without slowing. A cluster of boulders blocked his path and he vaulted over them with a clatter. His eyes narrowed and his jaw fell open. There. There she was. And she wasn’t alone.

Standing over was the  _ kettenmetzger _ . It was massive, a slab of ochre flesh Agon’s height but nearly twice his width. The bronze plates hammered into its flesh glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. It turned towards him and the chains of its beard clinked gently against each other. This one’s hands were hammers, massive bronze blocks crudely grafted to the stumps of its wrists. It opened its mouth to grimace at him and its obsidian fangs glistened with dried blood. Its eyes were tiny, beady things, deep-set in a knotted mass of scar tissue, but it saw him, and perhaps it even understood what he wanted. One hammer-hand descended with glacial slowness towards Eilonwy. She was trembling, but she made no sound at all. Agon could feel the terror radiating off her in waves.

He charged. There was no time to draw his sword, so he shoulder-barged instead. His pauldron caught it high in the chest, directly on the largest plate, with a sound like a mountain cracking open. The  _ kettenmetzger  _ stumbled backwards and Agon went with it. Its pinwheeling arms demolished an ancient oak, filling the air with wood chips and leaf fragments, and pulverized a small boulder. Agon teetered forward for one heart-stopping second before managing to keep his balance.

The  _ kettenmetzger _ regained its footing and bellowed. It shook its head back and forth and its beard-chains thrashed wildly. A fine spray of blood particles misted the front of Agon’s visor. Before he could draw his sword the  _ kettenmetzger  _ was on him, raining blows down from above, driving him backwards. He dodged one, deflected another with one armored gauntlet. The third caught him on the shoulder and drove him down to one knee. The thing’s strength was terrifying. It howled in berserk triumph and raised its other hand to deliver a killing blow.

Agon’s fist shot out and punched the creature in the knee. He felt something pop under his blow and its roar became a screech of pain. It staggered backwards and he followed up, unwilling to give it a moment to recover. He wrapped one long arm around its shoulder to prevent it from escaping and punched it again and again: in the shoulder, the side, the massive gut. Some of his blows clanged off its bronze armor, others sank into gristly flesh. Soon his knuckles were black with the beast’s foul blood. It rained hammerblows down on his back and shoulders, but without the room for a large wind-up, they lacked the strength to slow him down. He had it pushed up against an oak tree now and his hands crept to its throat. His fingers sank into the layers of overlapping skin and throttled with all his strength. He shook it back and forth, bashing the back of its head into the old oak.

His vision exploded in white. The pain came a moment later, terrible pain that split his head in two. He stumbled backwards, nerveless hands releasing their grasp, and reached up to his head. He could feel the dent in his helmet where the hammer had landed. The  _ kettenmetzger _ bellowed a challenge and stepped forward. It spun its whole body and delivered a punishing two-handed blow just as Agon was regaining his feet.

This time he left the ground entirely. His body flew back through a young elm, splitting the trunk neatly across the middle. From somewhere to his right he heard a high-pitched scream, and so when he finally landed, he rolled left. He had to keep the creature away from her. Had to. Had to.

The  _ kettenmetzger  _ was coming for him now, pounding its way across the forest floor, but it had bought him a second or two. He used that time to draw the hand-and-a-half sword. The blade glistened with oil and its edge shone in the fading light. He always kept it sharp. That was part of his Purpose, too.

The first hammerblow he dodged. The second he barely managed to spin away from. The third he caught on the edge of the sword. It sang when it met the corroded bronze of the  _ kettenmetzger _ ’s hammers. It tasted them and declared it a worthy foe.

Well. All right then.

His first strike was a downward slash aimed at the thing’s shoulder. It knocked the blade aside with the hammer, so Agon turned it into a spinning cut. The blade bit deep into the  _ kettenmetzger _ ’s stomach. A wash of acrid black blood poured out, along with slick ropes of intestine. The thing’s insides smelled wrong, too, polluted and foul. He was doing it a favor by killing it.    
  
It screeched, more in anger and frustration than actual pain, and came at him again. The two circled each other. Agon jabbed and slashed and soon opened up shallow cuts all over the  _ kettenmetzger’s  _ body. He laid its cheek bare to the bone and stabbed through the meat of its foot. It threw itself furiously at him, and his sword point drove in under its collarbone and exploded out of its back.

It wouldn’t die. Wounded unto death, bleeding out all over the forest floor, it still wouldn’t die. It dragged Agon down on top of it. The serrated chains of its beard sought weak spots in his armor: the roundels under his shoulders, the joints where gauntlet met vambrace. Its obsidian fangs gnashed in his face. He stiffened and pulled himself back as best he could. The weight of it pulled the sword out of his hands, and one of the hammers caught him on the calf and scythed his leg out from under him.

He scrambled in the loam and his hand came up with a rock. He turned and brought it down between the  _ kettenmetzger’s _ eyes. There was a sickening crack and a spray of blood, but it was still moving, so he brought it down again. And again. And again. By the time he was finished, he was breathing hard and spattered from head to toe in gore. But it wasn’t breathing at all.

He stood, wrenched the hand-and-a-half sword out of its shoulder, and wiped it off as best he could. Then, with slow and quiet dignity, he collapsed to his knees.

\--

Silence filled the forest again. Eilonwy slowly took her hands away from her ears and stood up straight. She had heard terrible, inhuman noises and felt the impact of titanic blows that shook the trees, but it all seemed to be over now. If she strained, she could hear breaths: one set of breaths. The cadence was familiar. The growl was familiar too, but there was a layer of pain in it now. She tried not to think about what she was doing and hurried over to the source of the sounds.

There was something there, all right, something hard and cold. She reached out one trembling hand and laid it against what felt like an armored leg. It was the  _ schattensoldat, _ she could tell that at once. Twice now her rescuer.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, and cursed herself inwardly for the tremor of fear in her voice. She could smell the blood in the air and hear the labored quality of his breathing. “You saved me.”

“Yerrsss.” 

Was that a word? Or was she reading too much into an animal’s growl? She swallowed and took a deep breath.

“What is your name?”

This time, the pause was so long that she began to fear that she had been wrong after all. Finally, he spoke in a voice like the hollow echo of a well.

“A… gon.”


	5. Communion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy finds unexpected comfort in Agon's touch

Eilonwy began to feel ill just after lunchtime, but it wasn’t until the evening that she realized she had a problem.

She had been traveling with Agon for a couple of months now. Exactly how long, she couldn’t tell. She had tried to count the days at first. That was easy enough: she could feel the sun on her skin and the crisp night air as the moon rose. Every night she would sleep nestled in Agon’s arms. Days blended together, though, with little enough to distinguish them. She used to mark time by chores. She had to feed the goats, fill the bath, churn butter and milk cows. Now there was nothing but the sun and the sky and the endless road. Cicadas chirruped in the tall grass; ravens cawed querulously as they passed. Agon took no notice of either. His footsteps were as regular as a pendulum: _thump, thump, thump._ Whenever her path verged too close to the edge of the road, Agon’s heavy hand would descend on her shoulder and steer her gently straight and true.

Where were they going? _Were_ they going somewhere, or merely wandering aimlessly like windblown seeds? Eilonwy had tried to ask but had gotten no useful response. Agon had said something like “Orrrruk,” which she wasn’t sure was a word and not a growl, and the next time she’d asked he’d said nothing at all. Still, she followed him, if only for lack of other options. He had saved her life twice now-- once, when she was lost and hurt in the forest, and again from the dreadful creature that had found her when she tried to escape. The world was a bigger and more dangerous place than she had ever imagined, especially for a blind girl. Agon might be huge and frightening, but he had taken it on himself to be her protector, and she could scarcely afford to turn him down. His huge hand engulfed her tiny one, but despite the strength in those iron-banded fingers, he was as gently as a lamb.

In the evenings, he would stomp off to hunt. The first time he left her, she was so frightened that she could barely move. She had no idea where she was and no idea how to get home, and as those heavy footfalls vanished into the distance, all she could think was _Please, Agon, come back. I’m sorry. For whatever I did, I’m sorry!_

He always came back, of course, dragging some boar or deer. He led her to streams to drink and bathe. At first, he didn’t understand why she shooed him away before taking off her dress. “Go on, Agon!” she would say. “Give me some privacy!”   
  
She wasn’t sure if he understood the term. And she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t peeking, anyways. But she heard him lumber off. When silence fell again, she pulled her dress over her head and stepped into the stream. The water only came up to mid-thigh, but she ducked her head and rinsed her hair. When she stepped onto the bank, she felt almost human again. She called out for Agon as she wriggled back into her dress. It seemed to her that he arrived a little too quickly, but she told herself she was being ridiculous. _Why do I even care, anyways?_ she asked herself. _He’s not a man, not really. And he did save my life._

Of course, just because he had saved her life didn’t give him the right to treat her like a pet. At first, she had tried to keep space between them. When he curled himself up around her, she would crawl away, find some hedge to sleep under or a soft patch of grass. It was still summer and the nights were warm and comfortable. Soon enough, though, she would hear the clank, clank of his armor and feel the weight of him all around her. She would crawl away again, and on most nights that would be it. She could hear the disappointment in his growls. On other nights, though, he would follow her wherever she went until, exhausted, she fell asleep her head head on his arm and her hair spilling across his chest. She slept better on those nights, she noticed, and the dreams were not always so vivid and terrible. After two weeks, she would no longer wriggled free of him, and after a month she began to seek him out. He removed part of his armor before he slept, just enough for her to make a pillow of her upper arm. The gust of his breath against her neck was her lullaby; the weight of his arm was her blanket. He was her armor, and she had never felt as safe as she did curled against his chest.

It was perhaps another month after she had begun to accept this arrangement that she felt the first cramp. She was confused at first, and feared the return of her magic. She was still recovering from the last time. Her sight would never return, she knew that now, but she still had her ears and her nose and her lips. Would she lose those too? Panic rose, then another twinge of pain seized her guts and she gasped. This was a familiar pain, and it _wasn’t_ her magic. She tried to think when her cycle had come last. In the village, hadn’t it been? In the fear and fury of her escape and rescue, she wasn’t certain. She had been so injured, so miserably sick, and hungry too… it was no wonder that she had missed a bleeding or two. But it was back now, she was certain of it. She stopped and turned away from Agon to reach a hand up under her dress. Two fingers rubbed across her thigh. Was that slickness there sweat, or something else? She raised them to her nose and sniffed. Her nose wrinkled. She smelled, that was for certain, though whether it was her bleeding or merely the dirt and grime of a long trip she wasn’t sure.

By nightfall, no question remained. She was limping now. A new cramp viced her insides every few minutes, and each one tore a gasp from her throat. She could feel the blood trickling down her thigh. At least she could go no further. “Please, Agon…” she wheezed. “No more… for today.”

He led her off the road to a little hillock and set her down against a stone. “Hunt,” he rumbled, and clanked off into the distance. While he was gone, Eilonwy tried to focus on her breathing. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She forced herself to take deep breaths. _Don’t focus on the pain. Feel the grass under your feet and the stars overhead. Feel the world around you. This pain is nothing. You survived blindness, you’ll survive this._

Soon enough, Agon returned. By the smell of it, he had brought down an elk, and he set to cleaning it. The smell of blood wafting from the corpse made Eilonwy feel sick. She fought to hold her gorge down.

She managed a few bites of dinner before nausea doubled her over. Agon was by her side in a flash. One hand supported her while the other tenderly brushed her hair out of her face. “Eil-on-wy,” he growled. “Hurrrrt?”

“It’s… nothing, Agon,” she managed. “Natural… just need… time.”

She could hear him sniffing. His breath boomed hollowly inside his helmet. Then he reached down, plucked the half-eaten leg of venison out of her hand, and pushed her over.

It wasn’t a sharp push, but she still cried out in surprise. She landed on her back in the grass. There was a rustling clank and then two heavy impacts somewhere near her. When Agon reached out for her again, she realized he had removed his gauntlets. His hands were warm against her thighs. He grabbed her by the legs and tilted her bottom upward. “A-agon?” she asked. “What are you d-doing?”

He didn’t answer. Perhaps he couldn’t. One hand grabbed her dress and flipped it up, revealing her bloody quim. Her heart was thudding in terror, but absurdly, she blushed. She could feel his enormous head between her knees. He inhaled deeply and purred low in his throat. Was that a sound of pleasure, or satisfaction, or what?

He lifted her still further. Now her head and shoulders were on the ground and her legs were in the air. Her sex pointed nearly to the sky. Her dress fell over her head and she squirmed to try to pull it off. This was easy enough-- it was hanging loosely on her frame anyways. She managed to pull it free and toss it away just as something warm and wet and soft caressed her inner thigh. She squawked in protest and flailed at him with her arms. He ignored her feeble thrashing— she might as well have been trying to uproot a tree with her bare hands.

“Agon!” she cried. “What-” Her protest was cut off in an undignified squeak as his tongue probed at her cleft. It was thick, larger around than her wrist, but extraordinarily soft and flexible. It slid across her mound and along her delicate lips, paused to flick at the hidden pearl of her clit. Something was blossoming inside her, something warm and strange and _good_. It seemed to radiate outward from the little pink bead. Agon’s tongue touched it again and Eilonwy stiffened. He seemed to take that as his cue. The tip of his tongue, finger-thick and firm, pressed against her clit and began to wiggle slowly back and forth. Eilonwy sucked in a breath and tried to muffle her moans. “Agon!” she breathed. “Agon, that feels… that feels…”

Her head was spinning. A lump built in her throat.The cramps were still gripping her tummy, but they were mixed now with a kind of delirious warmth. It muffled the pain and blended it with pleasure. Electric tension crawled across her skin. She could feel something building inside her, something powerful and secret, something she had suspected but never guessed the extent of. Her blood thundered in her ears. Something was changing, she could sense that; she stood on the cusp of something wonderful and terrible and frightening and powerful, something only she and Agon could share.

“Agon…” she murmured one last time. “Agon, we can’t…” She struggled in his grasp. One dainty foot clanged off the side of his helmet. The old terror welled up inside her, the same terror she had tasted when she felt his teeth for the first time. She knew he didn’t want to hurt her, but this was so much, so fast, so _strange_ …

She couldn’t do this.

Could she?

Agon seemed to sense her struggle. His tongue retreated from her buzzing, aching clit. She had a moment to gather her thoughts, but before she could say anything else it returned and slid between her lips as gently as a summer breeze.

It filled her up right away. This was nothing like her furtive girlhood experiments. This was something warm, something alive, something that moved with a mind of its own as it probed her nooks and crannies. Agon’s tongue squirmed inside her and rubbed against her velvety inner walls. She squeezed it with her vaginal muscles and Agon squeezed her back, his fingers pressing gently against her thighs. One finger unfurled and stroked her breast. Her nipple reacted at once, stiffening in the cool night air, and she stifled a moan as his fingertip circled and teased it. His tongue was teasing, too, finding the most sensitive places inside her and pressing at them again and again. Eilonwy surrendered to the feeling and relaxed. She arched her neck and groaned aloud. Her voice sounded feral, even to her, more like Agon’s throaty growls than she wanted to admit.

Faster and faster he went. Was he drinking her blood? Perhaps, but he was drinking her pain, too, her sorrow and loneliness and fear, the gloom that had clung to her ever since her exile. He drank it all up and hid it away and in return he brought her joy, and pleasure, and a sense of breathless exhilaration. She felt as though she was flying. The pleasure rose and fell in crests and valleys, and each new height made her head spin. She was dizzy with it, drunk on it, drunk on the feelings of his hands and his tongue and his hot hot breath on her quim. Something was building inside her, something raw and hot and powerful. She could no more resist it than a flower could resist the sun. She screamed her pleasure to the heavens.

“AHHHHHHHH!” The voice she heard was not a frightened little girl, nor a monster’s prisoner. “Ahhhh! Ahh! AHHHHHHHHH! AGON! AGON!” She bucked and writhed in his grasp as she came. It seemed like every nerve in her body was on fire. It went on and on and on, and just when she thought she could take no more, it subsided into a warm and comfortable glow that suffused her from head to toe. She slumped in his grasp. Slowly, gently, Agon set her down, his tongue slithering free and back into his mouth. Her pain was gone; her cramps were gone. She felt as though she was sitting by a warm fire in a comfortable chair. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her dress was somewhere in the grass. She didn’t care. She’d find it later.

“Mmmhhmmmm,” she mumbled. “Agon…” Her mind reeled. She could only just begin to process the enormity of what she had just done. Somehow, it didn’t scare her. _Is it my bleeding? Has it made me wanton?_ The Book of Right Living warned that that could happen. She certainly _felt_ wanton. The heat was still smoldering inside her like the embers of a dying fire.

This was the start of something, she realized, and what it became was largely up to her. The thought didn’t scare her like it seemed it should. She had a lot to think about… but there would be time for that later. For now, she would eat, and drink, and rest in Agon’s arms.


	6. Nocturnal Activities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy is more and more confused about the nature of her relationship with Agon

It took a week for things to return to something approaching normal.

Days were easy enough. Agon and Eilonwy walked side by side. When her feet began to wander, he would gently take her hand and guide her back to the trail. The feeling of his thick steel fingers closing around hers sent a strange thrill up her spine, a feeling that she couldn’t quite explain. It made her feel light, and dizzy, and slightly nauseous… but in a good way. The two of them would walk on for ten minutes or so hand in hand until her tiny palm would drift away from his. Her heart rate would gradually slow and her breathing would return to normal and they would proceed in silence for another ten minutes or so, and then the path would bend or she would stumble and they would begin the whole process over again.

Nights, though… the nights were hard. She still slept curled up in the hollow of Agon’s body, but now she was acutely aware of his presence all around her, the _physicality_ of him. He loomed. She still wasn’t sure just how tall he was, but he was surely larger than any man in her village. She knew by now that he didn’t mean her any harm. That wasn’t what she was afraid of. She would lie there in the dark, crickets buzzing around her and frogs chirping in the rushes by the stream, and her blood would pound in her ears until she could hear little else. It wasn’t Agon she was afraid of. It was _her_.

Her thoughts kept going back to that night. Why? Why had he done that? Why had she let him? She remembered the feeling of his fingers around her thighs, his breath on her belly, his tongue snaking into her quim. The pleasure that had risen up inside of her had been a primal, elemental thing, as alien and powerful as the magic that had stolen her sight. She had never felt its like. The thought that he, a _schattensoldat_ , could bring her such bliss… it scared her and excited her in equal measure.

The whole experience had been one of the most terrifying of her life, and she _still_ couldn’t stop thinking about it. And the worst part was she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to do it again.

So she lay there in his arms feeling more tiny and helpless than ever. She still hadn’t adjusted to blindness. She wasn’t sure if she ever would. Paradoxically, the nights were harder. During the day she had the sun on her face, and Agon clanking along beside her, and the endless emptiness of the road. Her head populated the roadside with all manner of strange sights, ones that she was sure were more exciting than whatever there actually was to see. She imagined all the characters from her childhood stories: wizened peddlers selling strange goods, brave lost princes, and old beggar women who were really gods and spirits in disguise. She pictured laughing blue streams full of fat trout and deer nibbling berries from the bramble bushes. She pictured endless waving fields of golden grass and wild horses thundering by in the distance, their manes fluttering in the wind.

At night, though, she had no such distractions. She wouldn’t have been able to see much by moonlight, but there was a difference between _not much_ and _nothing at all_. The stories from her childhood hadn’t all been bright and happy. There were a thousand thousand monsters out there in the dark, she knew that: goblins and alps and boggarts… and witches, witches worst of all, almost-human monsters that sucked life and vitality out of the land to power their spells.

They could be anywhere. They could even be creeping up on her _right now_. So she huddled in Agon’s embrace and squashed her misgivings. His arms were so big and so strong. Wrapped up in them, she was safe. And if there was another reason she craved his touch… if there were other images that danced behind her eyes in the long hours between dusk and dawn, other desires that flickered in her heart… she tried not to pay too much attention to them. She had gone through a terrible trauma, after all. Some strange thoughts were only to be expected.

One night, when she was feeling more courageous than usual, she tried to bring up the topic. She spoke to Agon occasionally, though she had long since ceased to expect an intelligible reply. Sometimes, he would grunt, and she thought she was getting to know the difference between a grunt of assent and one of negation. Sometimes he would try to speak, though rarely did he say anything she could understand. Usually, though, he would just remain silent. She could tell he was listening to her. It was something in his breathing, something in the way that he bent and straightened. She could feel the change in the texture of the air as he moved around her.

“Agon,” she said, her head resting on his arm. He had removed a plate and she felt the warmth of him beneath her neck. “Agon, are you awake?”

There was a long pause. Then, a heavy sound, the echo telling her that he was speaking from somewhere inside his helmet:

“Yeeeeerrrrrssss.”

“Agon…” she swallowed. “Agon, the other week. When I was bleeding. You… you kissed me.” It wasn’t exactly accurate, but she didn’t know how better to put it. This time, the pause was so long that she thought no answer was forthcoming.

“Yeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrsssss.”

Did she sense a little worry in his voice? A scintilla of fear? Impossible to tell. She summoned up her courage and pressed on.

“Why?”

He sighed, and she felt the wind of his breath ruffle her hair. He drew in breath again with a sound like a forge-bellows, then spoke.

“Lllllrrrrrrrrrfffffff.”

Was that _love_ ? Or _life_ ? Or _lift_ , or nothing at all, just the random murmuring of a beast in human shape? She could not decide and dared not ask further. That night, sleep was a long time coming.

She awoke and knew at once that it was still night. The air was cool and still against her face and the first twitters of birdsong had not yet begun. She could hear distant bullfrogs and the chirruping of night-insects. And she could feel a cool breeze against her face.

She sat up quickly. She could feel the breeze. Agon was gone. The bulk of him sheltered her, nestled her in a cave of warmth and comfort. When she awoke her cheek had been flat against the grass. He was gone.

It was then that she became aware of the other sound: a creak, a squeal of metal on metal, tiny sounds from someone trying to be quiet. The sound of armor shifting against armor. The sound of Agon.

“Agon?” she asked, her voice tiny. “Agon, are you there?” She could hear him breathing now, great puffs of wind. He sounded as though he was exerting himself. By the sound of it, he was right above her. “Agon, what—“

Her questing hand found his leg. He had not gone far at all. By the feel of it, he was kneeling over her. She was more curious than afraid now. What was he doing? She could hear him grunting under his breath. She pulled herself upright, holding his leg for balance, and he froze. His fingers closed around her wrist and tugged at her. She let her hand be pulled along his thigh. There was his armored thigh… there, the joint between plates… and there...

Her hand recoiled. There was something warm, and hard, and slightly wet, and as thick as her leg.

A mental picture formed quite quickly.

Her first reaction was shock. Her second was embarrassment. Her third was a strange heat that bloomed inside her and seemed to spread outward, nesting in her belly and curling fingers of warmth through her cheeks. Her hand crept back towards him as though it had a life of its own. She found his wrist, which was pumping back and forth, and gently took it in both of her own hands. He grunted again but allowed his hand to be pulled away. He leaned forward, looming over her, and she stepped in as close as she dared. Then she reached out, two handed, and found what she was looking for.

Her fingers closed around warm, pliant flesh. Tiny, wiry hairs grew at the base and tickled her palm. It took both of her hands to encircle his shaft, but she interlaced her fingers around it anyways. _It’s his man’s staff. I’m touching his man’s staff._ The thought echoed back and forth in her head and seemed to scare out all other thoughts, like a pike scattering a school of minnows. She could feel a wetness beneath her palms that she could not identify and remembered her own wetness the week before.

He groaned and bucked his hips once. His member slid between her fingers so suddenly that she yelped and almost let go. She remembered what he had been doing, the urgent pumping of his hand, and began to move her own. Gently she went, steadily, sliding along the shaft from the base to the tip. She was surprised to find the head: a bulbous, slick thing, round and smooth, jutting out from the shaft like the prow of a ship. She tried to remember what little she could from her days in the village. Men and women did not look upon each other unclothed; the Book of Right Living taught that _the sight of your treasures is for your lawfully wedded partner and them alone_ , but when she had been tiny she had bathed with her brothers. She didn’t remember anything like _this_.

Agon shuddered, the plates of his armor clanking together, and let out a feral growl. Eilonwy took that as her signal to speed up. She squeezed gently and was rewarded with a trickle of warm, sticky goop, seemingly from the tip of his member. She investigated the area with a fingertip and found a small hole. She tapped it once, playfully, and Agon growled again— but it was a friendly growl, she could sense that, a playful sound. He bucked his hips against her once more, almost knocking her down.

She thought back to her days churning butter, sitting on a wooden stool in the town square with the other milkmaids. This was no different. She flexed her arms, stroked and rubbed and tugged, squeezing along his length. Soon her fingers were slick and sticky. She stuck one in her mouth, more out of curiosity than anything else, and tasted salt.

Faster and faster she went. As she did, Agon’s growls became faint moans. He shuddered again with a faint clatter. She cupped his tip with one hand while her other slid along his shaft to its base and beyond. There was something else there: two somethings, actually, fleshy spheres the size of apples. She gave them a gentle squeeze and their tensed beneath her touch. She could feel Agon’s heart beating, could sense the blood pumping through his veins. He was approaching something, she knew that. She was growing quite flushed herself, and the warmth had spread to her loins, where it settled in the form of a needy itch. She had no time to scratch, though. She had a job to do.

She squeezed and stroked, squeezed and stroked. Her fingers met and cupped him and separated and rubbed along his length. She marveled at the smoothness of him, the warmth, at the way his staff reacted to her touch. It bobbed and twitched as though it had a life of its own. She reached down to his bollocks again and gave them another little squeeze, and Agon roared. The sound of his voice nearly flattened her. She jumped, startled, but his bellowing was not that pained cry she had heard that day in the forest but a hole of ecstasy. His balls twitched and his cock jumped in her hands and something warm and thick and sticky hit her right in the cheek. She gasped, which was why the next one landed right on her tongue. She turned her head away and spat, feeling the salty taste fill her mouth, but he wasn’t done.

Rope after rope of his slick and sticky seed erupted from his manhood. She pulled it down, aiming at the ground, but not until a half-dozen gouts had landed on her face and hair and dress. It kept coming and coming, a seemingly ceaseless flow. Every time she thought it had ended, his cock would jump again in her hands and she’d hear another wet _splat_. She tried to keep track of where she heard them land so she could sleep somewhere else tonight. She already would need a bath in the morning; no sense in making things worse. The taste of him lingered on her tongue, a slightly salty, slightly sweet trace that filled her head with strange and seductive ideas. He grunted and groaned as his bollocks drained themselves onto the grass. Finally, after what seemed like ages, his prick twitched one last time and fell silent. He was left breathing hard and softening in Eilonwy’s hand.

She felt as though she were in a dream. She stepped away from him, slowly and deliberately, and reached up to cradle his head in her arms. He knelt there for a heartbeat or two, then stood and straightened. There was a metallic creak and a rustle of leather and she knew he had put away his… thing. He reached down and took her hand again, and she allowed herself to be led across the meadow. There they bedded down again, and as his arms wrapped around her, she exhaled. She was no closer to resolving the questions that deviled her than she had been that morning. But, she thought, at least now they were even.


	7. Seeking Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy sickens, and Agon must search for help

The sun rose. The sun shone. The sun set. And Agon trudged on, following the hook in his brain.

It was a subtle thing, that hook. Sometimes it  _ yanked _ , and it was all he could do to think. Thinking was hard at the best of times. His thoughts circled each other like frolicing minnows. His attempts to corral them into some kind of order were short-lived at best, fruitless at worst. But every so often a great shark would swim into his little pool of thought and send the minnows scattering in panic. When it came, he could no more resist it than rocks could resist gravity.  _ She _ called, and when she called, he had to come.

She wasn’t calling now. He had a small vocabulary, and “grateful” wasn’t in it, but it was good that she wasn’t calling. He was content. He still felt the hook, but it was dormant. When left to his own devices, he would drift towards it in the same way that water would flow downhill, but there was no urgency to his movements. He simply knew that where he was was not where he needed to be. So he trudged along, one clanking foot in front of the other, as heedless of the baking heat of noon as he was of the gentle patter of rain. And Eilonwy walked beside him.

Eilonwy. There was another hook, but a welcome one. Her presence was like a gentle breeze against his soul. He had been surprised to find he still had one, after all these years, but corroded and rusty as it was, it still soared when Eilonwy was near. She talked at him, and he understood some of the words. He tried to talk back, but his efforts were confused and futile, and he could feel the old shame rising up inside him. Eilonwy never seemed to mind. She laughed, and her laugh was like the tinkle of a little silver bell. She made other mouth-sounds too, coos and sighs, especially when he had tasted her. That taste… the memory of it stirred things inside him, things that had been buried longer than his soul. Desires. Sometimes he wanted to hold her and sometimes he wanted to devour her and sometimes… sometimes, he didn’t know what he wanted, only that the need was fierce and powerful. He knew only that he would never hurt her. He would protect her from every lurking shadow and every danger. He would shelter her with the strength of his body and the steel of his armor.

Beside him, Eilonwy froze in mid-stride and wilted like a flower.

\--

Eilonwy had spent the last few days in a state of dizzy confusion. She had… she had actually  _ touched _ Agon’s man-staff. She was thrice cursed now, for certain: once for her witchery, once for fleeing into the forest, and once more for touching a man to whom she was not wed (if man he was-- she felt so, but sometimes had her doubts). And, worse,  _ she didn’t care! _ It didn’t bother her at all that, according to the Book of Right Living, she was now anathema. She was never going back to her village, she knew that much. Thrice-cursed? Make it four, or five! The thought coiled a rippling tendril of fear around her heart, but it felt liberating, too. She no longer needed to fear the Deacon’s accusing gaze. She had enough to worry about.

What did it all mean, for one? Why had she done such a wanton thing? Her blood had passed, so it could not be an imbalance in her humors. Nor had Agon forced her. He was terribly strong, she had known that from the day he saved her from the awful beast in the woods, but never was that strength bent against her. No, she had  _ wanted _ it. In some large part, at least. And that scared her the most. In the warm light of day the prospect horrified her-- and when she thought of it, she put some distance between herself and the sound of his footsteps-- but when she was walking along calmly, her tiny hand folded into his, sometimes her thoughts would stray to that night, and she would feel a strange itchy warmth blossoming in the pit of her stomach.

The whole thing was terribly confusing, and thinking about it left her dizzy. And then, one day, the dizziness simply didn’t go away. 

She made it to lunchtime before she had to sit down. The sun was beating down on her from overhead and her head was pounding right along with it. She could barely put one foot in front of the other. She groped blindly for a flat stone to sit on, found one, and collapsed onto it. Her head was spinning. She could feel a headache building, a throbbing pain beneath her bandage, where her eyes had been. She hadn’t dared lift it in ages. Now she did, and sniffed.

Her nose wrinkled. There was an ugly scent in the air, a sickly-sweet smell. She hoped it wasn’t coming from the bandage. Her fingers touched it and felt a slight crust. Blood? Sweat? She felt light-headed. The pain behind her eyes did not go away, but sharpened and curled. It felt hot, too, uncomfortably hot. Sweat poured down her face. She could hear Agon clanking softly. Was he standing over her? Watching her? She reached out blindly with one hand and felt steel fingers close over her tiny pink ones. Somehow, that made her feel better.

They rested for a time, until she felt that she could go on. When she did, the dizziness had not gone away, but it had subsided a bit. The pain, too. There was another feeling, though, a sort of tightness in her limbs, a crackle in her blood. She hoped it was not  _ the power _ coming up again, but if it was, there was nothing she could do about it. It had never come twice so closely before… but it had never burned out her eyes before, so she supposed that was no reassurance.

She slept uneasily that night. In her dreams she was afire, burning with a cold blue flame. She ran to and fro, begging her family for help, but they turned away and stared at her with pitiless eyes. No matter how long the fire burned, she was not consumed, but it burned the land to ash in her wake and left a trail of devastation behind her. Finally, in her desperation, she stumbled into the wilderness and fell to her knees before a great armored shadow. And behind him: a shape, a leering horned shape that reached out towards her with one gnarled hand…

She awoke with a start. Her heart was pounding. She was nestled in Agon’s arms, and all around her she could feel his heartbeat. The night air was cool and still, but she felt uncomfortably hot. She was still dizzy, and the pain behind her eyes was  _ itchy _ as well. Sleep would not come again, no matter how long she lay there.

The next day, just walking was a chore. She did her best to keep up with Agon, though she could not stop herself from falling behind. Each time, he waited patiently for her, and each time it took her longer to catch up. Putting one foot in front of the other was about all she could manage. The sun beat down from overhead and flattened her thoughts. The pain behind her eyes was a dull buzz, like a swarm of hellish bees, and every tiny motion left her reeling and nauseous. She could smell that sickly-sweet odor all the time now. It stank of corruption and putrefaction, of a corpse left out in a field on a hot day.

The world spun around her. The smell filled her nostrils. Inside her, the pulse and crackle of her blood was deafening.

She stood stock-still for a moment, swayed once, and then collapsed.

\--   


Eilonwy fell to earth with the gentlest of sounds, a soft  _ thud _ like snow fall off a bent branch. Still, it rang out like a bell in Agon’s head. He spun in time to see her body fold up beneath her. He had never moved as fast as he did then: diving forward, he scooped her up in his arms, the way he had done that first day they met. There was hardly any weight to her now. Beneath her white shift, she was just skin and bones.

Agon sniffed. He raised his visor and tasted the air with his tongue. One thick finger peeled back her bandage so he could see beneath.

There was a smell coming off her, a rotting smell, the smell of death. He hadn’t smelled it before over the gentle perfume of her body, but he could smell it now. Beneath it was another odor, acrid and fierce, the stink of the power that welled up inside her. It was weak now, but in time it would grow stronger. Agon knew this. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew, and he knew that if she was not prepared it would hurt her like before. Kill her, maybe.

That could not happen. It  _ could not _ . 

Agon did not panic. He couldn’t. Like so many other things, that had been pressed out of him, wrung out like water from a sponge. But a strange and twitchy fear filled his mind and echoed off the walls of his skull. It beat a tattoo that drowned out all other thought.

_ Eilonwy hurt. Protect Eilonwy. Eilonwy sick. Save Eilonwy. _

For a wonder, it was more powerful even than the hook. The constant pressure that had been a daily feature of his life for more years than he could count was temporarily drowned out. 

He swiveled, uncertain. He had passed this way before, he was almost sure of it. It had been a long time ago, but Agon did not forget things. Not unless  _ she _ wanted him to. He gazed at the horizon, then seemed to make a decision. His whole body rotated until he was facing the endless grassy plain by the roadside. Then he set off at a brisk walk, Eilonwy cradled in his arms.

\--

Eilonwy drifted. She had been here before, she knew. After her arrival in the forest, she had nearly died, and she had swum the black waters of this sea. Then it had been full of her memories. Now it was barren. She found it hard to move, hard even to think of movement, but she made herself speak.    
  


“Agon,” she managed. From somewhere a million miles away, she heard a rumble, a distant avalanche. “Agon. Please…hurts.” She swallowed, and her lip trembled. “Hurts.”

The rumble came again, but this time there was something in it. She tried her best to gather her scattered thoughts. She could just make it out, a voice buried in the growl.    
  
“Eilonwy.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she smiled.

The second time, she woke to pain. It filled her world. The burning pain, deep inside her; the itching pain behind her eyes. The nausea, the dizziness, the smell, they were all there, but pain was king and ruled over all. She had been here before. She knew the territory. She was awake, though. She felt feverish and weak. Raising one hand seemed to take all her effort. She wasn’t even sure if she  _ was _ raising it. She could feel sunlight and hear the breeze through the grass, but all these sounds were distant, as if traveling through a layer of gauze to reach her.

She heard voices. That, she could tell for sure. Multiple voices: male and female, all gruff, all urgent. She couldn’t understand any of the words they said, except one: Agon. Running footsteps, the swish of grass, and then a chatter of voices all around her. They hurt her head, and she tried to tell them to stop.

“Stop…” she managed. “Hurt. Agon…”

Agon had stopped. Someone was standing just in front of them, Eilonwy could tell. Male? Female? Impossible to determine. Her world was blackness. She heard a low and urgent voice, and murmurs of assent. She feebly raised one hand. As unconsciousness spiraled up to claim her, she thought she felt something familiar.  _ Oh gods, _ she thought.  _ That’s tusks. _


	8. Among the Orcs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agon and Eilonwy find respite from an unexpected quarter.

Sometimes it was hard for Eilonwy to tell what was the dream and what was reality.

The pain, that had to be real. Her head throbbed and ached, a sharp red agony where her eyes had been. The dryness in her throat, too. Every attempt to swallow was like being cut open by rusty knives.

How about the voices? Were those real? Low and guttural, they murmured at the edge of hearing. She caught only the occasional word: “fever,” “infection,” and, most intriguing of all, “Agon.”

Her mother certainly wasn’t real. She showed up nonetheless, pointing a furious finger at Eilonwy’s face, nearly shaking with rage. “This is all your fault!” she shrilled. “Witch! Unclean! You fled your just punishment! This is what you get for defying His will!”

Eilonwy wanted to explain, wanted to make her mother understand that none of this was her fault. She wanted to escape. She could do neither. Sometimes, she was vaguely aware that she had a body and it was laying in a bed, but at those times just rolling her head over took a monumental effort and left her exhausted. Speech was out of the question.

She floated half-conscious for an indeterminate time. Finally, after hours or days or centuries, she felt warm, leathery fingers close around her hand and strong arms lift her into a sitting position.  
  
“Drink,” said a voice close to her ear. At the same time, a clay cup brushed against her lip. She sniffed once and her nostrils filled with the astringent scent of herbs. Then something cold dribbled between her lips, and her choices were reduced to two: swallow or drown.

She swallowed.

The stuff was bitter and sharp, but when it hit her stomach it blossomed like a flower and spread tendrils of warmth throughout her body. She could only manage a very small amount at a time without dribbling, but her unseen helper waited patiently until she had drained the whole cup. To her surprise, Eilonwy found that she no longer wanted to sleep. She tried to speak, and though her throat still rasped with the effort, she found she could.

“Where am I?”

“Shhhh, child,” said the voice. It was low and husky, a grandmother’s voice, a voice that promised stories and fresh bread to good children and tears before bedtime to disobedient ones. “You are safe here. Agon brought you to us in the nick of time.”

“Agon?” Eilonwy reached out blindly with one hand. “Agon! Where--”

“He is near. He will come to see you soon. For now, child you need rest. The infection in your eyes nearly killed you, and though it is passing, you are still weak. There is some malaise in your soul, too, and that I cannot fix so easily. What is your name?”

“Eilonwy. It’s Eilonwy.” Eilonwy groped until she felt a hand close around hers. The skin was soft as old leather and warm, and the fingers were at least twice the size of Eilonwy’s. She could feel pinpricks at the ends of the fingertips where they came to points. This was a friendly hand, but it was not a human one.

“O-orc?” Eilonwy gasped. She had heard tales of the terrible orcs of the plains, barbarous raiders that swept down into the villages to plunder and maim. This one barely seemed barbarous, but all the same, Eilonwy trembled with fright.

“Yes, dear,” the voice replied, and Eilonwy thought she could detect a hint of a smile in that tone. “If you’re traveling with Agon, I hardly see how you can be afraid of an old greenskin like me.” She paused. “Agon is blood-brother to my eldest. No wonder he brought you to us. Poor Agon has had a difficult life, and there are not many friends in it. My name is Shereetha, Eilonwy. You are under my protection. Sleep, and when your strength returns, we will answer your questions.”

She withdrew and smoothed Eilonwy’s blankets around her. Eilonwy sank down into the vast bed, marveling at its softness and warmth. All around her she could smell fresh-cut grass, the musty smell of thatch, and somewhere, the piquant scent of cooking meat. It felt just like her village at home. _Orcs_ , she thought. _Real orcs. And they’re not eating me._

_Of course, that’s what I thought Agon would do at first._

As if thinking of him had summoned him, she heard a familiar clank at the door. A shadow fell over her. This time, she felt no fear. Even her trepidation at being in the midst of an orc village left her. She was with Agon, and no matter what happened, he would keep her safe.

He lowered himself gently into the bed, and taking care not to crush Eilonwy, he wrapped his arms around her. She curled up to nestle as close as she could to his chest. The puff of his breath washed over her and the rhythm of his heart thumped in her ears. She smiled, contented, and pulled his arm closer. Then she slept.

When she awoke, Agon was gone. She supposed he was out in the village somewhere. Distant laughter tinkled in her ears. She tried to sit up, and found to her surprise that she could easily swing her legs out of bed. What’s more, she was _starving_. She took one tottering step and nearly pitched herself over, but once her head stopped spinning she found she could walk-- tiny, mincing steps, but better than nothing. As she went, she felt at herself, and found to her wonder that she was wearing a new dress. It was just roughspun, but sturdy, with a layer of cotton beneath so as not to scratch her skin. Her makeshift bandage had been replaced by a thicker band of what felt like silk. She had been washed and scrubbed; the thought made her feel a little strange, but after everything she’d been through, it was hard to get exercised about a little bath. She felt like a new woman.

“Grandmother!”

This was a new voice, and not directed at her. It was low and growly, though the speaker’s obvious surprise made it seem less threatening. Eilonwy heard footsteps, then a strong hand grabbed her by the bicep and pulled her upright.

“Ouch!” she said. She couldn’t help it. Whoever was holding her had a grip like iron.

“I’m sorry!” said the voice. The grip relaxed, and after a pause, whoever it belonged to said: “Can you walk? You shouldn’t be up.”

Heavy footsteps approached from beyond the mysterious voice, and then Eilonwy heard Shereetha speaking up. She sounded annoyed.

“Foolish boy! Leave her alone! Yes, that’s alright, dear, you’re ok. Come to the sound of my voice.”

“I only meant--” said the first voice in a sullen tone. Shereetha cut him off.

“Idiot! Turnips for wits! I told you Agon brought a guest! Look, if you must stand around like an oaf, make yourself useful. Go fetch Kurrag’s stick.”

“But that’s Kurrag’s--”

“Kurrag is hunting in the clouds, now. He doesn’t need it where he’s gone. And Eilonwy here might find it useful. Go now or feel the back of my hand!”

The male voice faded gradually, grumbling all the while, and Shereetha crossed over to where Eilonwy stood. “Welcome back to the land of living, child,” she said. “Don’t mind my grandson. He thinks he’s being helpful. Tuvar is still at that age where everything’s a crisis.”

“Your… grandson?” Everything seemed to be happening very fast. Eilonwy’s head whirled.

Shereetha chuckled and slipped one arm through Eilonwy’s. “Afraid so. My third son’s fourth son. I have to keep them all straight in my head, or they get sullen. It’s not enough that your _oma_ is the chieftain, she has to be your _oma_ as well. Come, girl, it’s time for you to get into the daylight again.”

She led Eilonwy across the floor and out into the sun. It was easy to tell when they stepped outside; warmth spread across Eilonwy’s skin, and the blackness she dwelt in filled with dazzling golden light. All around her she could hear the sounds of a village at work: a hammering of stone on wood, the crackle of a fire, the sound of a wheel turning, the braying of animals. Shereetha instructed her to lift one foot at a time and slid comfortable canvas sandals onto her feet. Her grandson returned-- Eilonwy could hear his eager feet slapping against the dirt-- and a long, thin wooden stick was pressed into her hands. “Use this feel where you go,” Shereetha said. “It belonged to my second husband. Good man, but blind as a bat in his old age.” Thusly armed, Eilonwy found she could walk with more enthusiasm. Stick tapping in front of her, she accepted Shereetha’s offered hand and together they ventured out into the village.

Eilonwy was introduced to more orcs than she could count: Thurr the smith, Grotag the barber, and so on. Each time she mumbled a polite introduction and tried to smile. She was growing tired already, but Shereetha didn’t seem to want to let her rest. It was as though she was trying to make up for the time Eilonwy had spent convalescing. Finally, as if sensing her charge’s exhaustion, Shereetha led her to a wooden bench in the shade of a tree and sat her down. “Let me fetch you a cup of water, my dear,” she said. “Plenty of fluids, that’s the ticket.” While she was waiting, she felt something in front of her. Perhaps it was a change in the quality of the light or the texture of the air, but she shrank back self-consciously. All at once, she wondered where Agon was, and dearly wished he was by her side.

“Oh, don’t be afraid, little one.” The voice was husky, feminine, but young and alluring where Shereetha’s was old and weary. “This is the human you found?”

A male voice answered, strong and hearty-- a voice used to giving commands and having them obeyed. “Yes. Agon brought her to us. Can you hear me?” This last was markedly louder and made Eilonwy flinch away. She could smell hot breath in her face and hear someone breathing barely a foot away.

“Stupid boy! She’s blind, not deaf!” Shereetha’s retorry was followed by a loud _smack_ and a disgruntled groan.   
  
“Mother!” fumed the male voice, while his female companion chuckled.

“I raised you with better manners than that, Jorrut!” Shereetha laid a hand on Eilonwy’s shoulder. “I apologize for my son’s rudeness, my dear. He spends so much time out on the hunt that sometimes he forgets he’s not a beast himself.”

“My apologies, milady,” Jorrut said sheepishly. “When I heard you were up and about, I wanted to meet you. I was the one who met Agon out there in the plains. I could barely believe it was him, after all this time…” He cleared his throat. “Where are my manners? This is Kiyra, my mate.”

Slender but powerful fingers closed around Eilonwy’s and shook her by the hand. “Welcome to our village,” said the younger female voice-- Kiyra. “I must admit, you made quite a novel entrance. You and our armored titan.”

“Agon is my blood-brother,” Jorrut said stiffly. “When he is in need-- or any of his friends or companions-- it is my duty to assist.”

“You have strange taste, dear,” Kiyra laughed. “But I admit that this time you’ve picked a winner. We are lucky to have such a lovely guest.”

“I knew you’d like her,” Jorrut chuckled. “Mother, where is Agon? He’ll want to see his… friend.”

That pause lingered a second too long and made roses bloom in Eilonwy’s cheeks. She hoped none of the orcs noticed.

“He’s playing with the children,” Shereetha said. “Well, I say playing… they’re climbing him like a damn _borrak_ tree, is what’s happening. I’ll call him over. Agon!”

The heavy clank of footsteps filled the air, slow at first and then faster and faster. Eilonwy’s breath caught in her throat. She could feel Agon’s approach-- not the vibrations of his footfalls, but a stirring in her heart, a sense of lightness and peace. Powerful hands scooped her up under the arms and then she was flying, flying and laughing, spinning around and around in the warm summer air. His heavy arms enfolded her again and she knew that he would never, never let her fall again.


	9. A New Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy adjusts to life among the orcs

Agon and Eilonwy spent six months among the orcs, all told. After one, she felt better than she had since the day she’d fled her village, but Shereetha insisted that she stay “for observation, just in case.” After another month, nobody even mentioned the prospect of her leaving.

Almost nobody. Jorrut was the eldest of Shereetha’s sons, but his brother Erdag was only two years his junior. Erdag was a sour, glowering orc with a slight slur to his speech that Jorrut confided was due to his broken tusk. Evidently such an injury marked a sharp loss of face among the orcs. To Eilonwy, they were all just gravelly voices, but she nodded sagely all the same. Erdag was not overfond of humans, a category which in his mind included both Agon and Eilonwy. He’d voiced his displeasure, but had been overruled, and all that was left to him was to grumble and spit on the ground when Eilonwy passed by.

Still, he was easy to ignore. The rest of the orcs were warm and welcoming, though many of them spoke only a few words of the human tongue. They seemed almost afraid of Eilonwy at first. She would feel the skin-prickling sensation of eyes on her, and call out: “Hello? Who’s there?” Her only answer would be the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps.

Agon, though… the orcs loved Agon. They doted on him. The men would slap him on the back (Eilonwy quickly ceased to be startled by the ring of flesh on steel) and tell him stories: battles they’d fought or prey they’d taken. The women were more circumspect, but wherever in the village he went, ferocious whispering and bouts of uncontrollable giggling seemed to follow him. Occasionally, he would speak back, never more than a word at a time and always in that low, rumbling tone that sounded like a boulder falling down a hillside. There were more words locked away in his head, Eilonwy knew that, and it faintly bothered her that these orcs had been able to draw them out when she had not.

She finally dug the story out of Shereetha after she had been up and about for three weeks. “He came to us before, child,” the old orc said over bowls of soup. She had convinced Eilonwy to eat with the women, and she had the sense of many bodies clustered around as close as was polite. She had learned to listen not just to voices but the the silences around them, and this was the silence of a dozen pairs of ears raised in rapt attention.

“Four, or maybe five plantings and harvestings back. He came down out of the mountains, naked as the day he was born. We had never seen his like. Jorrut found him while hunting a plains-lion. Agon was weak then-- well, weak for him, which is still mighty bloody strong!” She paused as a cheer went up from the circle of men on the other side of the long table. Eilonwy heard the distant thunder of Agon’s voice, but could not make out the words. Whatever he said, it led to a hearty round of laughter and a light smattering of applause.

“He thought he should kill this monster, but something stayed his hand. Agon was a warrior, he could sense that at once. So he led him back here, and we filled him with nourishing soup. We thought he’d leave once he was healthy, but he didn’t. Guess he just took to us. The smiths made him that sword, and his armor. The first time he took to the field in that, the Red-hands damn near pissed themselves.”

“Red-hands?” Eilonwy asked.

“Oh, yes. There are tribes all over this plain, and none of them friendly. War keeps the blood strong, you know. Not slaughter, but a healthy test of metal on metal. And it gives the menfolk such handsome scars.” A chorus of delighted cooing from the orc women around her backed up her words.

“Anyways, Agon fought alongside our braves, hunted alongside them, ran with them. He stood for the harvest rites and joined in the springtime festival. I know he was popular with the girls-- isn’t that right, ladies?” The snickering that answered her made the hair on the back of Eilonwy’s neck prickle, though she couldn’t have said why.

  
“And then, one day, he left. We never knew why. He came to us like a windblown seed and left the same way. It is his way, I suppose. I sometimes wonder what manner of thing he is, and how he came to be so huge and strong… but if he knows, he cannot tell us. He is barely more conversant in our tongue than in yours.” She reached out with one leathery hand and squeezed Eilonwy’s fingers. “And now he returns, and he has brought us a gift. Perhaps that was his purpose. He had to leave, so he could rescue you. I can tell that you are fleeing something terrible, child. I will not pry-- but know that as long as you are with us, you are safe.”

As she spoke, tears pricked the corners of Eilonwy’s eyes. She was powerless to stop them. “I,” she gasped, “I… I…” She took a deep, shuddering breath, held it, and let it go. “Thank you!” she sobbed. “Oh, Shereetha! Thank you! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… I can’t… I haven’t…” She wanted to tell the orc everything-- her power, how she had lost her eyes, the battle in the forest. Something dammed up her words and stopped her throat. She could only sob helplessly, her arms flung around Shereetha’s shoulders.

“There, there, child,” the old woman murmured. “There, there.”

Eilonwy let the sadness and pain flow out of her. She cried for what felt like hours but was surely just minutes, then gradually snuffled to a halt. Something soft and dry was pushed into her hand. “Have a good blow,” Shereetha advised, and Eilonwy did with a noise like a foghorn. That finished, she found that she felt much better. Strong fingers lifted her soup bowl out of her hands. “Let’s top that up,” Shereetha said from somewhere above her. “We need to fatten you up.”

After that, Eilonwy found herself subsumed into the day-to-day life of the village. There was always something to do, and always someone to teach her. The women made everything the village used: they braided rope, tanned hides, chopped wood, pulled water and brewed a thick, yeasty beer that they called _akbaz_. “Gut-buster,” explained Yazzin, one of Shereetha’s daughters. Eilonwy reckoned she was about her own age, though she was too shy to ask. “It’s good-- but never pour it into anything metal. And never drink on an empty stomach.” Eilonwy wasn’t sure, but she thought the girl was smiling.

Whatever she did, she never did alone. The women of the village seemed to find her endlessly fascinating. For the most part, the orc menfolk kept to themselves, hunting and fishing and raiding, except during the great communal meals every night. But the women followed Eilonwy around, whispering and chattering excitedly. They didn’t seem malicious, only curious. Each day, one or another would approach her with some trinket or token and press it into her hands. She accepted them all with sincere gratitude: a tiny wooden dog from Lita, a garland of flowers from Hojji, a carved walking stick from Masha. One day, the sisters Bonna, Bozza and Borra cornered her and dragged her, protesting, into their hut.

“We’ve made something for you!” said one. Their voices were so similar that even Eilonwy, who had learned to discern by sound, couldn’t tell them apart.

“You’ll like it!”

“You have to strip, though!”

Three identical giggles filled the hut, and Eilonwy felt roses blooming in her cheeks. “It’s ok,” said a voice by her ear. “We’ve closed the door. We know humans are bashful about these things.”

“Not us!” said another. “We’re naked right now!”

“Bozza! Stop it! We are not!”

“All right. But we _could_ be.”

“No teasing.” This voice was soft and understanding. “We made you clothes. Your robe is getting a bit worn, dear. Can we help you?”

Trembling, Eilonwy nodded. She held her arms up and let the orcesses pull her dress over her head. Beneath it, her thin shift practically disintegrated as they lifted it off her. Fortunately, they did not touch her smallclothes. She wasn’t sure she could handle that level of intimacy.

  
She felt smooth linen being pulled down over her head, then strong arms took her wrist and lifted it up. The sisters pulled a sleeve down over one arm, then the other. The sleeves met and formed a sort of half-shirt that ended just below her chest. Eilonwy blushed as nimble fingers scooped her breasts into the waiting cups, but the sisters gave no sign of embarrassment or teasing. Next they pulled another piece of cloth down over her head, this one wrapping around her neck and overlapping the first to provide a bit more modesty. Her belly and navel were still completely exposed, but to tell the truth, in the heat of the plains this was quite comfortable.

Next came her legs. The sisters instructed her to step up, one foot at a time, and slid a pair of hide leggings over her calves. They pulled these up past her waist, and they stretched the entire length of her legs, covering the tops of her feet and lacing beneath her arches. The fit was quite tight, and Eilonwy could only picture how she must look. Her former neighbors would certainly have not approved of these-- a woman was not meant to wear trousers, and these trousers were tight indeed, cinching around her waist and pressing against her… against her…

Well, they pressed against her, and that was a new sensation all by itself. Not an uncomfortable one, to be sure. Just a new one.

Fortunately, there was more to this outfit. Something like a belt of twisted linen threaded around her hips, riding up her flanks almost to the height of her belly button, and knotted in the middle to support a loincloth that reached almost to her knees. Above this was a sort of apron that stretched to her calves, complete with a pouch-- perfect for carrying tools, wood, or anything else that might be needed around the village.

Three pairs of feet stepped back. Three pairs of hands clasped with a series of staccato claps. Three mouths sighed in satisfaction.

“You look a proper orc now, Eilonwy!” said one.

“Except for the skin.”

“Yes, pity. We can’t do anything about that.”

“Do you like them?”  
  
“Are they comfortable?”   
  
“Agon will like them, I’ll bet!”   
  
At the sound of his name, all three sisters sighed again.

“Agon!”

“Oh, what a man he is!”

“We missed him sorely!”

“Sorely is the right word. He has a cock like a sledgehammer!”

“Damn near knocked my kidneys out of my ears!”

Eilonwy gasped despite herself. “You… you… laid with Agon?!”

“Of course!” All three voices laughed heartily. Again, a hand fell on her shoulder. “It’s just the way of things here. We live freely and love freely. We all had Agon… when he lived with us before. Since he came back with you, he’s had eyes for nobody else.”

“Poor Tharga, though!”  
  
“She tried, the other day! Did you see? The poor thing was practically rubbing herself on him like a lioness in heat!”

“The last I saw her, she was stalking out into the fields. I asked her what she was doing and she said she was finding the biggest corncob she could!”

“She’s probably frigging herself senseless right now! As long as she doesn’t try to cook with it later, that’s all I say!”  
  
All three sisters laughed uproariously. Eilonwy blushed harder than ever, which just pushed them to laugh louder and longer.

She loved her new clothes, and she even began to adjust to the orcs’ way of speaking and thinking. They were shockingly open; couples would kiss and fondle each other in public, or with their doors wide open, and without sight Eilonwy would only find out about these assignations when she was nearly on top of them. Nor were they restrained in their choice of partners. She had presumed Jorrut and Kiyra were married, in fact if not in name, but more than once she came across one or the other enjoying the company of another orc (or two, sometimes… that had sent her fleeing back to her hut with her head down and her cheeks burning). Such things were simply commonplace, and they in turn drew her thoughts back to Agon.

Now that she was up and about, the two of them shared a hut. Every night she crawled into the hollow of his body and slept like a lamb. During the day, he was off hunting or on some other errand, but they ate dinner together, her sitting in his lap and sampling morsels that he plucked from the long table. The orcs’ meals were sumptuous affairs, full of meat and bread and fresh vegetables, and nobody left the table until everyone had had enough.

At night, Agon would strip off much of his armor, and Eilonwy would spend a minute or two feeling him. His face, his arms, his broad chest; she felt like she was getting to know him, an inch at a time. He always stood patiently while she did this, rumbling deep in his chest. Sometimes, he would say “Ei-lon,” or something in the orc language, his basso voice rumbling out of his chest. Then they would lie down, and he would gently stroke one massive finger along her arm, or across her belly, or through her hair. He never tried to touch her intimately, not even when her blood was on her, though at times she felt the weight of his swollen prick through his trousers. She was tempted sometimes to reach back and squeeze it, but she knew that he would take it as a signal, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. Not yet.

Three months after she had arrived, Shereetha pulled her away from candlemaking and sat her down on a wooden bench. “It is good to see you doing so well, Eilonwy,” she said. Her voice was grave, and for a moment Eilonwy feared she was in trouble. “You have been with us for three moons now,” Shereetha began, and Eilonwy’s resolve cracked.

“Please!” she squeaked, her voice sounding weak even to her. “Please, please don’t kick us out! I’ll be good! I’ll help out more, I promise!”

“What?” Shereetha sounded momentarily nonplussed. She chuckled. “Oh, no, no, no, child. I told you, you are welcome as long as you want to stay. No, I wanted to tell you that the festival of Ak’Dorr is coming up. Our lunar festival. The year is drawing to a close, and harvest time will soon be upon us. There will be music, and dancing… and a Moon-daughter, to wear the tiara and give thanks to Sister Moon for her endless waltz across the sky. I want that to be you.”

“M-me?” Eilonwy’s voice quavered. She could barely process this revelation. “I don’t… I’m not an orc, I don’t speak your language much… Yazzin has been teaching me, but I’m not…”

“It’s not hard,” Shereetha said with a reassuring pat. “Please, you would honor an old bag of bones if you’d agree. All you have to do is wear a special silly hat and say a special prayer. And dance, of course. You like to dance, don’t you?”

Eilonwy had loved to dance, in truth. It was one of the few pleasures allowed at the village; every harvest, they’d lay a pair of barn doors flat on the uplands and the farmers would bring out their instruments, their fiddles and horns and guitars. Just the memory stung Eilonwy like a dart of ice. She swallowed her grief and nodded. “Y-yes, I do, but--”

“Splendid! You will be an excellent Moon-daughter. Yazzin will tell you what you need to do. The festival is in a week.” Before Eilonwy could say anything else, Shereetha stood up, helping her to her feet. “I’m off to arrange a feast. You know how it is… so much to do, so few hours in the day…”

Eilonwy was left alone. She groped for her stick, but as she bent over, a strange vertigo seized her. She could feel something moving inside, something awful and ancient and so, so powerful, something that had been sleeping but was now coming back to fitful life. A spark crackled along her arm and earthed itself through her walking stick.

 _Please_ , she thought. _Please, no. Not here. Not now_.

As though her prayer was heard, the power began to fade. Like a great beast subsiding into torpor, it quieted itself and dimmed to stillness. It was still inside her-- she could feel it, a distant, thrumming pulse like the heartbeat of the world-- but it was asleep.

For now.

It took her a moment to regain her breath. Heartsick and afraid, she went to look for Agon.


	10. Daughter of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy takes part in an orc festival.

Eilonwy had always loved to dance.

It wasn’t forbidden. Far from it-- the people of her village had danced at every major festival, everything from traditional reels to wild jigs. Though it took a stern tone on nearly everything else, the Book of Right Living had been silent on the subject of dancing. So a half-dozen times a year, a group of strapping young men had laid a couple of barn doors flat on old Geraint’s pasture and the villagers had whirled the night away to fiddle, fife and drum.

Eilonwy was-- had been-- a graceful girl, willowy and light on her feet, and she had no shortage of offers. But the second she stood on the planks, she felt the weight of the eyes on her. It didn’t matter that they were joyful (and somewhat bleary; the clay jugs that made the rounds on harvest festivals had a smell that could crinkle paint). In her mind’s eye she always saw herself stumbling and falling, making a fool of herself in front of her friends and family. She danced, yes, but fearfully, and she made her excuses and stood by the side of the makeshift stage as soon as she could. Those nights, she would always sneak out later to dance by herself. Long after the musicians had gone home or fallen asleep in their chairs, she would spin across the planks, sashay to and fro, leap into the air with the beat of the music still playing in her head. Only when she was alone was she truly free to dance.

It was different with the orcs. For one thing, her nightmare had come true. Some nights she still shuddered awake with the angry cries of the villagers in her ears. They had hounded her out of her home, driven her into exile, and she was still alive. The worst thing that could happen had happened and it hadn’t killed her. Mostly, though, it was her blindness. She simply couldn’t see the eyes on her. She had thought she would feel them as a prickling on her skin, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel anything at all. In the darkness of her head, she was free. And so she danced.

Yazzin was teaching her. She was a sweet girl-- Eilonwy had thought her her own age, but it turned out she was younger. Orcs matured quickly, and Yazzin was already considered a woman, though unlike her older brother Jorrut she had not taken a mate. Indeed, she seemed downright bashful compared to the other orcs.

Perhaps that was just politeness, for Eilonwy’s sake. She could feel her face reddening every time Bozza told one of her amazingly filthy jokes. It had reached the point where even the sound of her braying laughter from across the village could put bloom in Eilonwy’s cheeks. Yazzin’s laugh was much softer, more ladylike. She giggled whenever Bozza finished up another ribald joke, though she never did more than that, and she spoke quietly and politely to Eilonwy whenever they worked together. She had asked once about Eilonwy’s old life, but perhaps she could hear the tears the human girl was fighting to hold back when she spoke of her village. After that, they never talked about the past-- not Eilonwy’s village, not the accident that had taken her eyes, not even the sickness that had almost killed her. Instead they talked about the future, about the weather, about life on the great plains.

The two of them sat side by side on a bench shucking corn. Eilonwy could do this by feel; her hands moved nimbly, tearing away the cornsilk and pulling off the leaves. It was all muscle memory. As they worked, Yazzin told Eilonwy about the dress she was making (every time the raiders brought back a scrap of cloth as a trophy, she would descend upon it, casting a stern glance to see if it was worthy of being added to the work in progress). She told her about the boy she fancied (from a distance, of course, stalking him with all the subtlety of a master huntress… he would have no idea what was coming for him until it was too late). She told her about the myths, too, the moon and her daughter, the dragon whose spine was the world, the spirit-breath they could feel on a windy day.

“They are trying to talk to us, Eilonwy,” Yazzin confided, her voice low and solemn. “They miss us here in the living world. The night lands are cold and empty for those who died in their beds.”

“Really?” Eilonwy wasn’t sure what to say to that. The Book of Right Living said that the righteous would be judged and allowed into Paradise while those who sinned would burn forever-- but by the Book’s standards, every orc was a sinner of the highest order. She had never questioned it growing up, but Eilonwy couldn’t imagine Yazzin as a sinner. She was sweet and clever and kind. Maybe the orc’s version was better. “What does your Book say?”

“What book?” Yazzin sounded confused. “The spirits can’t live in a book, Eilonwy. Our stories don’t live in books. They live in us. We tell them to each other and keep them alive that way. Our ancestors, too. My grandmother smiles every time I tell you her story. As long as we speak her name, she doesn’t have to pass into the night lands.” She sighed. “That’s what every orc dreams of. A story so amazing that it never stops being told. That way, they never have to pass on all the way.”

Eilonwy wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It occurred to her that after she was gone, she might not want to keep looking at the living. But it seemed rude to say so, so instead she asked: “This festival. This dance. What do I have to do?”

“Oh!” Yazzin brought her hands together in a clap so loud and sudden it made Eilonwy start backwards. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I was supposed to be helping you! Eilonwy, you don’t know how lucky you are. The Moon-daughter drinks the first cup of wine and eats the first meal of the harvest, and she has the first dance, too. If you were an orc, all the men would be lining up for your favor.” She paused, and when she spoke again a smile had crept into her voice. “Not this year, though. They’re all too afraid of Agon.”

Eilonwy smiled, too, half out of embarrassment. She still wasn’t sure what to do about Agon. The two of them had reached an unsteady equilibrium, but she knew it couldn’t last. Every night she slept curled up next to him, and every night she felt his desire. It was hot, hot as the breath on the back of her neck, and fervent, but what scared her was the way it paled in comparison to her own. She wanted him more than she’d wanted anything else, and the only thing that had held her back was uncertainty. And that was not much of a barrier.

Yazzin’s voice brought her back to the present. “...and then you just say the prayer of thanks, and we all eat. That’s it, really, except for the first dance.”

“What prayer?” Eilonwy asked.

“Oh, it’s simple. And it doesn’t even have to be word for word. Just a prayer of thanks: ‘Mother Moon, your daughter thanks you. Keep our ancestors close, and may we all see you next year. May our corn grow ever taller and our roots ever deeper.’ As long as you hit those notes, you’ll be fine.”

“And the dance?”

“Oh, yes. Well, during the day, everyone follows the Sun Prince. That’s Jotuk.”

Eilonwy was familiar with that name. Jotuk was one of the most eligible bachelors of the village. He had been hurt on a raid two winters ago and left for dead. He’d stumbled back to camp a month later, wrapped in the pelt of a bear he’d killed with his hands. He hadn’t blamed the raiders-- they’d done what they had to do. And just like that, overnight, his star had risen. He rode with Jorrut now, and was rumored to be courting Bonna, Bozza and Borra all at once.

Despite his newfound fame, though, Jotuk was modest and sweet-natured. He spoke kindly to Eilonwy and sang around the campfire at night. His voice was a beautiful baritone, much smoother and less gravelly than some of the other orcs. Eilonwy couldn’t understand the words-- despite her time among the orcs, she still hadn’t picked up their tongue-- but she could feel the emotion behind them, the grief and joy and wonder. The thought of dancing with him… Eilonwy’s tongue suddenly felt heavy in her mouth and sweat beaded on her brow. What would Agon think?

Perhaps Yazzin noticed her distress. “It’s just a dance, Eilonwy. A simple one. I’ll teach you. You don’t have to, you know, marry him or anything.”  
  
The pause before “marry” was so slight that if Eilonwy hadn’t been looking for it, she might have missed it. But she was looking for it, and she knew what it meant. She wasn’t the naive girl who had run into the woods anymore.

Yazzin brought out the headdress Eilonwy would have to wear. She dearly wished she could see it, but the orc girl described it to her in patient detail. “It’s made of wickerwork, Eilonwy. Woven with silver bands-- they represent the moonlight. There will be flowers braided into the wicker on the day of the festival, and ribbons. It’ll smell of aster and goldenrod.”

“I wish I could see it,” Eilonwy sighed. There was a brief moment of silence. She realized she hadn’t said that out loud before-- hadn’t wished for her sight back. It had been months now and she was adjusting to life in darkness, but there it was. She wanted to see again. She wanted to see the birds overhead, the flowers blooming among the rolling grass. She wanted to see Shereetha and Jorrut and Yazzin. Agon, she wanted to see Agon most of all. She knew he was fearsome, and she would probably have fled from him if he had come to her village. But that was a lifetime ago, and that girl was dead. She had died in the forest and Eilonwy had risen, rescued by the _schattensoldat_ from legend, and now she wanted nothing more than to see his face. Unbidden, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Yazzin saved her. The orc somehow always knew what to say.

“You won’t be missing anything, Eilonwy. On the night of the festival, the most beautiful thing to look at will be you, and you can’t look at yourself.”

Eilonwy giggled at that, and the spell was broken. She felt Yazzin’s soft fingers close around hers.   
  
“Here. Let me show you how to dance.”

It was a simple dance after all. The two of them wheeled in gentle circles, with Yazzin counting out steps. “It’s meant to be the Moon’s dance across the sky,” she explained. “And she always takes the same route, does Mother Moon. Not an imaginative lady.”

“Well, she has an important job to do,” Eilonwy pointed out. “How would we like it if she was spinning all over the place?”

“I guess so,” Yazzin admitted. She shifted her grip on Eilonwy’s hands and pulled her into a tight spin. “But if it was me up there, I’d occasionally try something different. Just once or twice a month, you know? Maybe I’d zig-zag.”

“Is it really a goddess, do you think?” Eilonwy asked. She pitched her voice low and had to fight the urge to look over her shoulder. In her old life, such questions had been met with beatings at best.

“The moon? Of course, right? What else would it be?” Yazzin sounded vaguely amused. “It’s not a giant lamp, whatever the Red-hands say. They say that it’s the lantern carried by the great sky ogre as he hunts for prey. Have you ever heard anything so foolish?”

Eilonwy had not, and they shared a good laugh about it together. Yazzin’s breath gusted against Eilonwy’s neck. Eilonwy was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the weight of the orc girl: the warmth of her pressed against Eilonwy’s side, the swell of hips and bust, the strength in her fingers against Eilonwy’s own. She mumbled an excuse and stepped back.

“Are you alright, Eilonwy?” Yazzin’s voice held nothing but innocent concern.

“I’m fine. Just… tired. Could you walk me back to my hut?”

Yazzin did, and left after double-checking to make sure Eilonwy was fine. She was, really she was. Inside, alone, she sat down on her sleeping mat and listened to her heart hammer in her chest. It wasn’t Yazzin, she knew that. The girl was sweet, but Eilonwy had been thinking of Agon.

_What if he could dance? Would he dance with me? Would he be my Sun Prince?_

_Is that what I want? Am I asking too much of him? Can he ever be anything but what he is?_

_What_ do _I want?_

She slept poorly that night. Agon, as if sensing her unease, kept his distance. He always curled up like a dog to sleep. She tried to nestle in the hollow of his limbs, but her body felt wrong-- taut and heavy and strangely clumsy. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Agon was all around her, sheltering her with his body, but she felt terribly alone.

The day of the festival crept up sooner than she’d anticipated. The celebration started at sunrise, and she was awoken by the wild whoops of the orcs. At first she wasn’t sure what was happening and she felt panic rising inside her. Then it clicked.

“The festival! Agon, wake up!” She reached for him, but he was already gone. Eilonwy scrambled to her feet and changed quickly. She’d slept in a loose robe that Shereetha had given her, but she had laid out the leather and linen outfit Bonna, Borra and Bozza had made for her. Weeks of practice had left her able to slip into it quickly, even alone, tying the knots by feel. She hardly felt self-conscious at all anymore, even though anyone passing by could look in the hut and spy on her.

 _Of course, Agon might have something to say about that_.

Dressed, she slipped her sandals on her feet and ran outside. The air was full of joyful noise: shouts, whoops, the pounding beat of a drum. The Sun Prince had arrived, and they were chanting his name. Yazzin found her in all the clamor and took her wrist. “You’re awake! Happy Festival of Ak’dorr, Moon-daughter!”

“What are they saying?” Eilonwy asked. She had to yell to make herself heard. Yazzin’s response came as a shout in her ear:

“It’s traditional! They’re saying, ‘here comes the Sun Prince, he makes the corn grow tall, he brings in the harvest, all hail the young king!’”

“Young king?”

“It’s just an expression!” Yazzin said. “In the olden days, he really was king for a day. He got to do anything he wanted. At the end of that day…” she made a choked sound. “Harvest time.”

It took a moment for Eilonwy to realize what she was saying, and when she did, she recoiled in horror. “You mean you’re going to--”

“No, no!” Yazzin shouted. “No, that was in the bad old days. It’s more civilized now. But I tell you-- the Sun Prince is a popular figure. There’ll be a lot of cubs looking like Jotuk this time next year.”

This time, Eilonwy barely blushed at all.

The crowd hushed as Shereetha emerged from her hut. Yazzin translated her short speech, which was fairly repetitive on the themes of thankfulness and praise. After that there was more singing, then Jotuk spoke a ceremonial prayer… and then they broke for lunch.

Eilonwy had taken to the orc’s meals with gusto and had begun to replace some of the pounds she’d shed on the road, but this was a feast of a different order entirely. Roast duck in spices, filet of antelope, candied yams and fresh buttered corn; mashed sweet potatoes, stuffed peppers, a cornucopia of freshly harvested vegetables. Eilonwy stuffed herself until she thought she might burst and washed it all down with thick orcish mead. Yazzin gently stopped her after two cups. “Don’t get legless just yet, Eilonwy,” she said quietly. “You still have to dance tonight.”  
  
Eilonwy, who was just starting to feel a little dizzy, agreed. There would be time for that later.

She missed Agon. He hadn’t cheered during the celebration. Yazzin told her that he’d been staring at her the whole time. Without his armor, it was impossible to keep track of him by sound alone, but Eilonwy could feel his gaze on her. Even blind, she knew just when he was looking at her, just when he was thinking about her. He sat with the menfolk, but she knew that inside, he was counting down the minutes just as she was.

After lunch there were games. These were separated by sex as well-- the women ran footraces and wrestled while the men tossed stones and dueled at “ _met’urath_.” “It means ‘skull-cracker,’” Yazzin explained. “Basically, they just hit their foreheads into each other as hard as they can.”

“And that doesn’t hurt?” Eilonwy asked.

“Of course it hurts! But you know men. They’re not storing anything useful up there anyways.” A sound like a hammer hitting a hollow log rang out, followed by a heavy thud and a loud cheer. “Murrk is winning every round. Why not? His head’s solid as stone all the way through.”

A cheer went up and Eilonwy looked around at the sudden noise. “They’re putting up the climbing pole,” Yazzin explained. “Tall as three men and smooth as a baby’s arse. The women take turns trying to climb to the top.”

“Why?” Eilonwy asked, confused. She tried to picture it.

“Well, the winner gets a fat goose. But it’s more about bragging rights. You want the men to know you’ve got thighs that can clamp on and not let go. Want to give it a go?”

Eilonwy was surprised to find that she did. The orc women clapped and cheered as she approached the pole. She held out one hand to touch it and verify its smoothness, then stalked in a circle, trying to find the best approach. She couldn’t quite figure out what she was supposed to do. Eventually, she just took a flying leap at it, limbs flailing, and clung on. When she tried to shimmy upwards, though, she lost her grip and fell in a heap in the dirt. She’d only been a couple of feet off the ground, and she was more surprised than hurt. Before she could stand, though, massive fingers closed around her arms.

“Agon?” she asked. He was standing over her, his breath echoing in her ears.

“Ei-lon,” he said. Then, after a pause. “Ei-lon-wy.”

The cheers of the orcish women faded to a dull roar. Time seemed to slow. Eilonwy looked up at Agon, staring sightlessly up at the sky. She could smell the animal musk of him, feel the roughness of his calloused hands on her arms. “Agon…” she breathed.

The moment passed. Agon helped her to her feet. “T-thank you, Agon,” she said. He laid one massive finger against her cheek, then stepped back.

As the afternoon wore on and the mead flowed, the clear-cut gender lines began to break down. Young Ormung, who was a bit of a clown, took a try at the climbing pole to general amusement. And Tharga challenged stone-headed Murrk to _met’urath_ . A ring of hooting orcs surrounded them, and after the ritual banter, silence fell. Eilonwy heard the hollow _thonk_ and the accompanying _thud_. “What happened?” she asked excitedly. “Yazzin?”

“She knocked him clean out!” Yazzin said, awe in every syllable. “Like a fallen tree! And now she’s got him by the ankle! She’s heading for her hut!”

The crowd parted to allow her through, Yazzin pulling Eilonwy back. “The grin she’s got!” Yazzin said. “Like a sabercat over a fallen gazelle. Poor Murrk. I hope she gives him a chance to wake up, at least.”

Eilonwy couldn’t remember the last time she had been this happy. The sun was shining, she was among friends, her belly was full and Agon was nearby. The worries she had been carrying seemed to melt. In times to come, she would cling to this memory, and it would sustain her in her darkest moments.

All too soon, though, night began to fall. They ate again, a smaller meal this time and a more solemn one. Shereetha placed the headdress on Eilonwy’s head and led her to a carved throne.   
  
“Up you get, little one,” the old orc said. “Careful, there’s a step.” Eilonwy scrambled up into the seat and let her feet dangle. They didn’t even touch the ground. Silence fell gradually, aside from the wheezing snores of those orcs who hadn’t paced themselves properly.

Shereetha cleared her throat, and Eilonwy startled in her seat. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, I’m sorry. Um…” she bowed her head and tried to remember her mother’s prayers. She’d always said one over dinner. How did it go? What had Yazzin said?”  
  
“Oh, Mother Moon,” Eilonwy began. The appreciative murmurs from the crowd told her she was on the right track. “Thank you for your bounty. You have seen us through another year. Thank you for taking care of our ancestors, and…” she paused. “Thank you for taking care of me. I was sick and hurt, and your people took me in. You saved my life. Thank you, Mother Moon, for creating such a kind and caring folk.” She realized that she was rambling and tried to remember what Yazzin had said. “And may our corn grow ever taller and our roots ever deeper.”

When she was finished, nobody spoke. For one dreadful moment she thought of her nightmares again, the eyes on her, and then Shereetha whistled in appreciation. “Here, here!” she said. “A lovely prayer! Thank you, Moon-daughter!”

“Thank you!” the cry went up among the orcs. “Eilonwy! Eilonwy! Moon-daughter!”

Eilonwy slumped in her chair. Only now, as the tension was running out of her, did she realize just how tense she’d been. Shereetha and Yazzin helped her down to the ground and led her forward.  
  
“Just the dance left, Eilonwy,” Shereetha whispered in her ear. “You’re doing fine.”   
  
“Where’s Agon?” Eilonwy asked. Her fears had left her along with the tension. Up there, during her prayer, she’d realized what she had to do. The knowledge had focused her, fortified her. She walked with a sense of purpose and clarity she hadn’t had since she’d fled into the woods.

“He’s nearby,” Shereetha said. If she knew what Eilonwy was thinking, she didn’t say anything about it. “Don’t worry, we explained to him what this dance means. He’ll be good.”  
  
The crowd parted before Eilonwy, and Shereetha and Yazzin led her into a wide, flat clearing. There were no barn doors here-- the orcs danced barefoot on the hard-packed earth. Somewhere behind Eilonwy, a drumbeat started up, simple and solemn: _boom, boom, boom_.

Yazzin let go of one arm and Shereetha the other. Then strong hands glided into place where they had been, strong hands with thick, muscular fingers. Eilonwy’s hands quested up past them and found a pair of arms, bulging with muscles and dusted with short, wiry hair.

“Jotuk?” she asked.

“At your service, Moon-daughter,” he replied. His grasp of her tongue was excellent, with only a trace of an accident. He spoke softly, reassuringly, just loud enough for her to hear. As a lone pipe began to trill, he took the first step in the dance Eilonwy had practiced.

The two of them moved with fluid grace. Eilonwy was hypnotized. She could not see Jotuk, could not see the crowd or the landscape spinning by, but she felt it all. It pivoted around her like a child’s mobile, a great machine made of breath and words and beating hearts. The village was a web, and for just one night she was at its center. She belonged here. Shereetha would _never_ make her leave, she realized that now. She could have a life here. A _life_. A real life, with Agon, maybe not the kind of life she had dreamed of as a child, but not as different as she might have imagined.

Jotuk was the perfect dance partner, his steps confident but not overbearing, and in his arms Eilonwy soared. She could tell that some of the younger women were jealous of her right now, but she felt nothing but pity for them. She didn’t need Jotuk. She had Agon.

They whirled around and around, and now more instruments were joining, fiddles and fifes and hornpipes, and now other couples were filling the space around them too. Eilonwy could feel the wind of their movement. She ignored them. She was the Moon’s daughter, and her mother was watching her from overhead, sparkling like a silver coin in the firmament. The moon saw everything and laughed, not a cruel or mocking laugh but a joyful one. She was glad that her children were so happy.

Jotuk deposited Eilonwy by the edge of the clearing and knelt to kiss her hand. “Moon-daughter,” he said, his voice as smooth and rich as butter. “I don’t want to steal any more of your time. There’s someone here who I think wants a dance.” As he spoke, a heavy hand fell on Eilonwy’s shoulder.

She reached up and took Agon’s wrist in her hands. He could lift her like this, she knew; one of his arms had strength enough to pick her right up, to throw her into the air if he wanted. But he was as docile as a lamb. He was wearing a similar outfit to hers, leather and linen and scraps of wool, and outside of his armor his motions felt strange and gawky. He allowed himself to be led into the clearing, and Eilonwy walked without fear of running into anyone. They would part before the Moon-daughter.

The musicians slowed down, and Eilonwy turned and reached up. She grabbed Agon’s hands in her own. Really, she could only grab his fingers, but she made do with that. She began to revolve, slowly at first, and Agon lumbered to keep up. She could feel his heavy footfalls. He was not much of a dancer, that much was obvious from the first seconds, but he was trying. He spun her around and lifted her off the ground, his hands supporting her under her armpits. He could have closed his fingers around her chest and touched finger to finger and thumb to thumb. _A giant_ , Eilonwy thought. _My giant. My giant._ Her headdress flew off, whipped by the wind, and she didn’t care. Someone would catch it. Her hair whipped free and fluttered around her. She tried to imagine what she looked like just then: a maiden dressed in barbarian finery, spinning around and around in the arms of a monstrous knight. _What would they think of me now?_

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was her future. What mattered was what she did tonight.

When Agon set her down, she reached up and took him by the wrist again. He hesitated, but perhaps he saw something in her determined expression, the set of her jaw. He bent down until his massive teeth brushed against her ear.

“Ei-lon,” he breathed. “Ei-lon-wy.” He paused, and then spoke with what sounded like tremendous effort, as though he was forcing the word out one syllable at a time. “A-gon. L… loooove.”

There were tears in her eyes again. Eilonwy blinked them away and led Agon into the night.

 


	11. Two Souls Joined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eilonwy decides what she wants from Agon, and takes it.

Eilonwy’s heart thudded in her ears. She realized with a start that she was more frightened than she’d ever been. Not even when she was facing certain death in the forest had her knees been this weak, her breath this hoarse.

She led Agon by one finger, her tiny hand wrapped around it. He moved so softly. Perhaps even he realized the momentousness of this night. The moon glowed down on them, a disc of pure silver somewhere up above. Eilonwy could not see it, but she fancied she could feel it: a cool patina, like silk against her skin. The night was still warm, with just a hint of autumn’s bite to come. Behind her, the cheers of the orcs and their merry music faded into a dull him.

Eilonwy crossed the village center one footstep at a time, walking unerringly towards her tent. She was used to the route by now and no longer needed her walking stick. At this time of night, the village would normally be crowded: menfolk returning from a hunt, women enjoying a moment to sit and chat while the cubs were in bed. Now it was eerily silent and that silence pressed against Eilonwy’s ears. Her heart sounded oppressively loud: _bum, bum, bum._

She felt that she was teetering on a precipice, her arms windmilling in the breeze. She close to doing something, she knew, that she could never undo. But behind her… behind her was only pain, only sorrow, only rules that had never kept her safe, had closed around her like a bear trap and driven her into the arms of…

Of what? Of the kindest, most caring, most dutiful man she’d ever known, never mind that he towered over her and had a mouth like a hyena’s. Of the orcs, who she had grown up believing were savage butchers. Now they were her family.

Behind her was nothing worthwhile. Before her was everything.

She leapt.

Inside her hut, she pulled the curtain-- she was not embarrassed, but this was a private moment, one for her and Agon to share. She heard Agon shifting around, and she knelt down before him and reached out. He was not wearing his armor, and the laces of his breeches were thick to accommodate his massive fingers. She deftly undid them and reached inside.

His man’s staff was as she remembered it, thick as a firewood log and twice as long. Just touching it set her heart aflutter and brought a dampness to her thighs, a tingle in that secret space between her legs. She rubbed it up and down. Somewhere above her, Agon breathed in the darkness. He sounded eager-- or perhaps she was imagining it. Her own eagerness colored her perceptions.

By interlacing her fingers, she just managed to get her hands around it, and she stroked up along his length. Her fingers were soon slick and sticky, though if that was from sweat or his fluids she couldn’t tell.

She had learned much among the orc women, and now she wanted to put some of it to use. She bent forward and opened her mouth. She was nervous about the taste, and glad she couldn’t see the thing she was about to suck, in case she lost her nerve. She opened as wide as she could and tugged it into position with her hands, then ran into the first problem.

It simply wouldn’t fit.

She tried every angle, every technique, with mounting frustration. Her jaw simply was not wide enough. This boded ill for her plans later, but she was determined. Instead of sucking, she began to lick, placing her tongue against his skin and dragging it back and forth. He tasted surprisingly sweet-- maybe it was the sticky fluid coating her fingers, maybe it was just the natural scent of him. She licked from the tip of his member to the base, where two heavy balls hung like fresh apples. She licked them both and planted soft kisses on the skin. Inspired, she began to kiss him all around, up and down his length, and especially against the very tip of him. He murmured softly in the darkness, and a rush of satisfaction came over her. She was doing this! Her! Thanks to her, Agon was feeling good, and that filled her with satisfaction.

He rumbled, and she felt a huge hand rest on her shoulder. His thumb rubbed back and forth against her breast, and she gasped as she felt her nipple stiffen. She released his prick and stepped hurriedly back.

It was the work of a moment to untie her apron, unlace her leggings and pull her top over her head. She peeled the clothes off her, reveling in the sudden cool of the evening against her bare skin. Gooseprickles raised on her arms and back. She raised her arms instinctively to cover her breasts, but Agon’s fingers gently closed around her wrists and pushed them down. There was a rustle, a motion of air, and then she heard him breathing right in front of her face. She stood there, paralyzed and trembling.

Something warm and wet caressed her shoulder. She thought back to that night, under the stars, when her blood had come upon her suddenly. His tongue was soft, tremendously flexible, and warm; it traced its way down her shoulder, across her chest, and up the swell of her bust. Its tip circled her nipple, and she shook like a leaf. The feeling of it-- a gentle tickle, a warmth that blossomed in her chest and spread throughout her body-- she could not put it into words, but it reminded her of the tone that the orc women sometimes took when discussing the details of a particular conquest with each other. Eilonwy had always felt like an outsider at those conversations, excluded from whatever sorority of secret knowledge brought the women together. Now she knew.

She let Agon explore her for a moment more, then reached out an arm and pushed him back. He reached out and scooped her up under the armpits, lifting her into the air. She felt him lay back and put her down on top of him with incredible care. She sat with her legs gathered beneath her on his stomach, her hands flat against his chest.

Somewhere behind her, she knew, was his staff. She groped blindly and found it, sticking up like a mighty oak tree. She quailed at the thickness of it. Her other hand trailed down her tummy towards the thatch of blonde hair between her thighs, the dewy lips hidden away beneath.

There was no way. There just wasn’t.

“Agon,” she said softly, struggling for words. “I don’t know if I can… I mean, we can’t… I want to, but…”

His response was to run two powerful fingers through her hair and press them to her cheek. She turned and gave them a kiss.

He put his index finger in the hollow between her breasts and gave her a slight push. She let herself fall backwards. Her head was somewhere below his navel, her legs extending over his shoulders. She felt dreadfully exposed, but even in that feeling, there was a secret excitement. Her pace quickened. She felt his hands closing over her thighs.

His tongue darted out to tease her furrow, and she cried out in sudden surprise. It came again, a light tap, and she heard a _whuff-whuff-whuff_ noise coming from between her feet. Agon was laughing, she realized. He was toying with her.

Agon's tongue came again, and this time it was not a light tease but a constant pressure. The tip of his tongue, as narrow as her finger but twice as strong, snuck between her lips as smoothly as a whisper. It twitched to and fro inside her, stroking her inner walls and making her shudder and gasp. It moved playfully, darting from place to place. Now it teased her entrance, running down one coral-pink lip and up the other; now it burrowed, squirming, to the very heart of her. She could feel the tension ebbing out of her shoulders. She had been afraid, so afraid, and the muscles had knotted angrily. Now they relaxed.

When the tongue withdrew, Eilonwy felt the hollow ache of disappointment throb in her chest. She had felt something rising inside her, some power, like the magic but benevolent and controlled. It ebbed now, and she grimaced in frustration.

Not for long. There was a long, wet noise, like a dog drinking from his bowl, and something firm poked against her mound. It was wider than his tongue, firmer, but dripping wet. It was, she realized with some alarm, his finger.

His fingertip prodded gently at her nether lips. She was already soaking wet from a mixture of her own arousal and his saliva, and the finger slid into her easily enough. This was nothing like his tongue. His finger was firm, stiff, and it filled her up entirely; she could feel her body stretching around it. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it came with a sense of pressure that was quite novel. _He’s inside me. I can feel him moving around inside me._ The thought was bizarre, but it felt safe. It felt right. His finger moved slowly, ever so slowly, easing itself into her an inch at a time and then sliding back out at the same rate. She forced herself to take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out. She could hear the tremble in her voice as she exhaled. It was partially fear, but not entirely; the constant pressure against her inner walls was filling her mind with an eager, tingling pleasure she had not felt before. She wondered if this was how it always was with a man, or if Agon was special in some way.

They lay there for an indeterminate length of time, he on his back on the floor, she on her back on top of him. She reached out above her head with both hands and gripped his staff, out of a vague feeling that she should be reciprocating. It was as hard as she remembered, but seemed less intimidatingly thick. Perhaps she was relaxing under his touch.

His movements became quicker and more assured. His finger corkscrewed slightly as it moved and rubbed against different parts of her. That seasoned the pleasure, flavored it like a stew spiced by an expert chef. She arched her back and bit down on her lip to stop a soft moan escaping. Something of the shy village girl remained, but she _wanted_ to moan. In fact, she wanted to scream. She wanted to announce her pleasure to the heavens, and tell the world what Agon meant to her, how he made her heart flutter and feel light, how he made her dizzy and scared and safe all at once.

But some habits died hard. So she bit her lip and let her bliss escape her in tiny sighs.

The tent was silent but for the slick wet sounds of their coupling and Eilonwy’s breathy little moans. She wanted to lie there forever, until the plains-grass grew over them both like the moss-covered trilithons of the forest near her village, but there was something else they had to do. The urgency of it tugged at her.

She pushed herself into a sitting position with her elbows and reached down to Agon. He withdrew his hand and rumbled an unmistakable question.

“I want to… I want to try it, Agon. I want to love you. Please be gentle with me. I trust you, all right?”

Agon was silent for a moment. She could feel him gathering his thoughts.

“Trrrrssssss. Ei-lon. A… gon.”

For a moment, just a brief moment, Eilonwy felt terribly sad. There were more words in there, she could tell, locked away in the rough clay of Agon’s mind. When he was straining to make himself understood, he sometimes sounded so _frustrated._ She felt the same, locked away from the world of light and color by her blindness.

Now he simply settled back and let her do the work. She climbed up into a kneeling position and shuffled down along his belly. She made it to his thighs and spread her legs to straddle him.

His penis was bumping gently against her belly. She swallowed hard. It still felt huge. Was she ready for this? Perhaps she should just go back to using her hands and mouth. He seemed to like that.

She shook off the notion. She was done being a scared little girl. She was done accepting her limitations. She would seize control of her destiny, and it started here. She lifted herself up on her knees, as high as she could, and positioned the round tip of his cock against her quim. With a deep breath and a silent prayer, she let herself sink down onto it.

He filled her up almost at once. His head slipped into her, its passage eased by his patient ministrations, and with it came an inch or two of shaft. That was all she could take. Even that much felt strange and slight uncomfortable-- it felt like someone was pressing, lightly but insistently, against her stomach from below.

She shifted her position slightly. Much better.

For a moment, she could not move. Wonder paralyzed her. She was… _making love_ to Agon. The way husbands and wives did. She was laying with him. That was what witches did: they lay with monsters and birth terrible half-human children. But Agon was no monster, and she was no witch. The Book seemed so simple now, so blinkered: it was a child’s book of nursery fables, that was all. This was right living. This was what Eilonwy had been waiting for, this transcendence. She imagined she could feel Agon’s heart beating, transmitted up into her body and resonating her like the string of a harp. Her own heart beat in time with it. Two hearts, two souls, intertwining and harmonizing with each other…

She was loving Agon, loving him the way she had always wanted to, and she felt his love in return. She was soaring, and he was right there with her.

She began to roll her hips backward and forward just a little, just the barest tiny amount. Even that much filled her cheeks with color and quickened her pulse. The first third or so of his staff was inside her, but that was enough. More than enough. As she moved, it rubbed against her, inside and out. The pressure, the warmth of him, the firmness, it all combined to create one beautiful blended texture of sensation. It wrapped her up in a blanket and carried her away, to heights she’d never imagined existed. She sped up, faster and faster, knowing that she would be ok no matter what. Agon wouldn’t let her fall. In her head, the sun shone down on her and she galloped across the prairie, her golden hair streaming behind her. She was leaping, flying, and she was no longer afraid.

“Agon!” she shouted, no longer caring who heard. “Agon, oh, Agon, my dear, my love, my heart… OH! OH, AGON!”

His baritone rumble rose up to meet her. There were no words in it, just formless longing, a connection that he had thought stripped out of him. It was there after all, there all along, there in what had been made of his heart. It leapt at the sound of Eilonwy’s voice, the smell of her, the wetness dewing her thighs, the tightness of her secret places.

His hands reached up and held her by the hips. He began to roll with her in a great, slow tidal motion, like a wave crashing against the shore. She threw her head back and forth in ecstasy, her golden hair streaming like the tail of a comet. Her smile glittered in the darkness.

Eilonwy could feel something approaching, some last, wonderful revelation. She welcomed it. It was necessary, she knew that in her bones, a necessary step on whatever road she was walking. She threw back her head as it hit her: an overwhelming heat, a blast of sensation, a pleasure so intense that it burned her mind like a brand. It robbed from her the power of speech. She could only cry out in wordless, thoughtless joy.

Agon, too, had reached his limit. A deep, animal growl built in his throat and tore out between his lips, sounding like nothing so much as a wolf’s howl. It turned heads all across the village. Agon’s fingers bit into Eilonwy’s sides, just barely hard enough to hurt, but she didn’t even notice. His cock twitched once, then he began to cum.

It filled Eilonwy almost at once. He lifted her off him with a sudden motion. Just in time, too-- the next spurt painted her thighs and lower belly. She squealed in delighted surprise. Again and again, he twitched and fired. Warm liquid spattered back down onto his belly and thighs, and some landed as high as Eilonwy’s breasts. It seemed to take him forever to finish, and by the time he did, both of them were sticky and dripping, and Eilonwy was laughing like a loon.

She lay down on top of him, curled up on her side, her head tucked into the hollow of his chin. She was breathing hard and as tired as she’d ever been. “Agon,” she said in a playful whisper. “My Agon. Forever and ever, do you understand? Forever and ever.”

“Furrrr vurrrrr.” Agon nodded. He ran one hand (mercifully dry) through her hair and entwined a lock in between his fingers.

Eilonwy felt her breath returning. She knew she could not lay here forever. There was a stream behind their tent, and they’d have to wash themselves. Tomorrow she’d have to get up and weave baskets as though everything was normal. As though the world hadn’t moved. But that was tomorrow, and tonight, she was perfect where she was.

\--

She was still on her cloud the next day. Yazzin was too polite to say anything, but Bonna, Borra and Bozza all giggled loudly as she walked by. She barely flushed at all. “Good for you, girl!” one of them whispered as she passed, and was that embarrassing? Maybe a bit, yes. But not as much as she would have thought the day before.

Her heart raced a mile a minute. She felt energized, like she could climb a tree or run in circles around the village. She half-wished they’d left up the big greased pole so she could climb it. She was sure now she’d get to the top.

It was in that mood that she arrived at the dancing circle. Most of the day was scheduled for cleanup, and the whole village pitched in. Orcs moved in small knots, putting away supplies and disassembling the ritual dais. She heard their muttered conversations as she passed.

One caught her ear. A low, sullen voice was saying “...Moon-daughter. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

A voice in her held told her _leave this alone, Eilonwy. No good will come of it._ She ignored it. Intrigued, she slipped behind a tree and flattened her back against it.

“Leave off, Erdag,” said another voice, this one younger and exasperated-sounding. “She said a nice prayer. It was a great night. Why ruin it?”

“I’m not the one who ruined it,” Erdag complained. “I’m not the one who invited a human to be the Moon-daughter. We’ll be the laughingstock of the plains if this gets out.”

“Who cares?” asked the other orc. “Who cares what they think of her? She’s a lovely girl. And Agon… he does us proud out there. We’re lucky to have them.”

“Agon. Hmph! Don’t get me started! He’s no orc! He’s not even a man! He’s a monster! Shereetha is lucky he hasn’t picked his teeth with her bones. I’d wager he’s just waiting for us to let out guard down, and he’ll slaughter us in our beds. Him and that witch wife of his. I don’t know what--”

Eilonwy had meant to listen silently, but she found herself stumbling forward. Her dainty hands were curled into fists. “How… how _dare_ you!” she said, her voice high-pitched and shrill. Sudden rage welled up so powerfully it shocked even her.

“Eilonwy!” said the younger voice, and she heard him take a few steps back. Erdag, on the other hand, stepped towards her.

“That’s right!” he snapped, inches from her face. “I’m onto you, witch, and your freakish lover! You don’t belong with us! You don’t belong anywhere! You’re monsters, both of you!” He seized her wrist, and Eilonwy shrieked.

It took her a moment to realize that she wasn’t the only one screaming. Erdag screamed too, a bellow of pain and indignation, and a crackling sound filled the air. The anger that had been building inside her erupted outward. It snaked along her limbs like lightning and discharged in sun-bright flashes. Power arced outward from her in all directions, snapping tree limbs, scorching the ground, bowling over curious onlookers. At the center of it were Eilonwy and Erdag. Sizzling bands of power wrapped around them. She could smell flesh searing, could feel him trembling. His screams grew weaker. Acrid clouds of smoke filled her nostrils and her shriek dissolved in a choking cough.

As quickly as it came, the great flow of power shut off abruptly. Eilonwy fell backwards, away from the charred bundle in front of her, and landed hard on her back. She bent double in a coughing fit that became a chest-deep sob. Her eyes burned, as badly as they had when she’d first lost them. She was sure at least one limb was broken. She was nauseous, overcome by exhaustion, and she could feel a throbbing wound in her soul. It ached like nothing she’d ever felt, a cold, deep pain that wormed its icy fingers around her heart.

“Agon!” she wailed. “Agon, help! Help!” All around here were voices, shouting in mingled fear and confusion. Cutting through them, though, was a deeper sound, a familiar one. The clank of steel on steel.

Agon’s footsteps barreled out of the chaotic darkness. His arms bent down to scoop her up, and she groaned at his touch. Bruises seemed to have appeared all over her body. But he did not even slow down. He cradled her in his arms and ran, ran like the wind, ran like a plains lion out from the village and across the savannah. Eilonwy curled up against his chest with tears streaming off her cheeks and her soul sloshing with poison, and Agon ran until the orcish village was a memory on the horizon.


	12. A Wrought Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agon is called back home and meets his brothers

A new day dawned, and Her Will rose to meet it.

The tower clung to the black basalt wall of a deep canyon, wedged in among the High Fells like a wound in the flank of a corpse. What little sunlight trickled down between the jagged peaks was thin and pale, and it spilled across the rushes of his room in a golden puddle. Her Will let it fall across his back. It did not warm him, but that was all right; he didn’t feel the cold, though his breath steamed in the air. He had slept poorly again, and aches knotted his neck and back. Slowly, meditatively, he began to stretch.

The tower echoed with the sounds of things waking. She was in residence, and she had been busy; the pits were full of cast-offs and the flues echoed with an agonized chorus. Every time the music dulled, Her Will awaited the coming of a new brother or sister, and every time he was disappointed. As her failures mounted, her wrath waxed high, and Her Will shuddered at the sounds of her rages.

He wanted to approach her, to comfort her, to reassure her that her true sons stood ready. But he did not dare in her current state. Her fury burned in the air like an acrid mist. The torches flickered in their sconces and blood dripped from the walls. The tower shivered with its mistress’s anger. Instead, Her Will descended to the lightless catacombs, where things that had once been men scuttled and mewled piteously. The paired ossuary blades flicked out of his forearms with a wet  _ click _ , and he began to feed.

The day was half-gone when he felt her hook in his brain. It latched on suddenly, dragging him back from his meditation, and he stumbled to his feet. His breath caught in his throat. From the next cell he could hear the clank of metal on stone; Her Voice had been at his chaunt, and the mistress’s hook had stopped up his tongue.

_ My sons. Come to me now. _ Her eyes flashed in his head, and he shuddered. She was smiling, he could tell. Her smile was the most dreadful thing in the world.

They gathered in her laboratory, ignoring the piteous mewling of the thing on the slab. The air was thick with the sweet smell of viscera. Blood pooled between the flagstones and gurgled down the drains. Nerra stood before her sons, one set of arms folded, the other splayed wide. 

“My children,” she said, and smiled beatifically. Her Will cast his eyes down. He could feel a single drop of blood oozing out of his tear duct, but he dared not blink it away. It caressed his cheek as it slid. It took everything he had not to scream. Instead, he abased himself. He was a worm, a clod of earth, a puppet-thing into which the mistress had breathed life. He was not worthy. He was not--

“My Will. Look at me.” 

He could not more disobey than a wave could disobey the tide. He tilted his head up and beheld her. A trickle of blood dripped from his nostril and pattered on the floor. The places where his flesh had been remade throbbed with pain. He was coming apart at the seams, but if it be so, his last sight would be his mistress in all of her glory.

She reached out with one finger and touched him on the forehead, and the pain vanished like smoke. It blew away and left him revitalized. He gasped in awe, and Nerra smiled down at him.

“Yes, child. Tell me, what is your name?”

It took a time to remember. His throat dry-clicked as he fought to form the words.

“Her-Will-Extendeth-Over-All-Things.”

“And does it, child? How far does my will extend?”

“To the ends of the earth, mistress,” he gasped. Nerra nodded as if satisfied.

“My wayward son is coming across the plains. He will enter the shadow of the mountains, soon. We should be there to greet him.”

\--

Agon ran. He had set out for a reason, he knew that, but it was hard to remember now. Hard to remember why he was running this way; hard to think at all. In the time since he had met Eilonwy, lights had begun to flicker on in his mind, long-disused corridors of thought reopening. He had felt himself on the cusp of some great realization, some transformation. That was gone now; the teetering towers of thought he had been slowly and meticulously building had burned to ash. The bundle in his arms, burnt and barely breathing, that was all he could think about. Every time he tried to remember more, her wails of pain and fear filled his head. They bounced off the walls of his skull, growing so loud he thought he might burst. He knew only that he had to run, and he had to carry her.

She had not woken since the village, though she moaned and grumbled in her sleep. He could feel the heat of her, not just against his arms but in his soul. She blazed like a bonfire in his mind’s eye. Sparks cascaded off her skin, sickly green and bloody red, and the smell of cooking soul filled Agon’s nostrils. The power inside her burned on and on. It was feeding on her, burning her to ash. It poured into Agon, empowering him even as it consumed the tiny girl in his arms.

The sun had risen and set three times, and still he ran on. He did not slow, not to eat or drink or sleep. Greyness was creeping in around the edges of his vision, and there was a strange and unwelcome tightness in his throat and a hollow feeling in his belly. He ignored them all. Breath rasped in and out of his great lungs. One foot rose, leapt, and fell again. When he could no longer run, he slowed to a jog; when he could no longer jog, he walked, dragging himself forwards, following the tether that whispered in his brain.

Behind him, the ash-blonde grass of the savannah waved gently in the breeze. Before him, mountains like the teeth of a dragon speared into the sky. The sun was setting behind them, filling the sky with a blood-orange glow. It seeped out between the spires and set the chrome of his armor aflame. His visor protected him from the worst of the glare, but he still squinted. The blinding light filled his vision with spots and played tricks on him. There, did he see movement? Out of the corner of his eye? Some great beast, some savannah predator stalking him and keeping pace? He swiveled his head, but there was nothing there. The hand-and-a-half sword was still strapped across his back, and if need be, he would draw it. There had been no need so far. The savannah was full of predators, lions and hyenas and hunting hounds, but no living thing dared draw close to him. 

He turned back towards the mountains and  _ there they were _ . Three figures, man-shaped if not man-sized, a quarter of a mile distant. They stood as still as statues, but they had not been there a moment before. The wind changed, blowing towards Agon, and his nostrils flared. He smelled them. He had smelled that smell before: the stink of sudden, spiteful death. 

He smelled  _ her _ .

For the first time in three days, his panic began to ebb. He was suddenly wary. In his arms, Eilonwy let out a pained moan and shifted, and a cold dagger twisted in his heart. Yet he could not turn around. Something had been pulling him onward, drawing him unconsciously towards the mountains like a lodestone draws a nail. That something was very close now. 

The wind whistled through the grass and the steel plates of his armor clanked together, but there were no other sounds. Up ahead, the three figures grew ever larger. They still did not move; they might have been carved out of stone. One of them wore a high-crested helm like Agon’s, and streamers pinned to its crest fluttered in the wind. They were the only things moving.

A withered acacia tree sprouted all by itself about a dozen yards shy of the first figure. The wind shook it gently as Agon approached. He lifted Eilonwy and laid her down against the tree. She lolled bonelessly against it, her chest rising and falling. Agon took a moment to ensure that she was comfortable, then rose and turned.

Three of them. They stood in a rough semicircle, staring at him. He had never seen them before, but he knew them all the same. They were wrought, as he was wrought, and their maker would not be far.

Agon stood at the center of their semicircle, making sure to put himself between them and Eilonwy. None of them looked at her, even as a stray spark leapt off her body and earthed itself against the tree with a crackle. They were looking at Agon.

“Brother.” The voice was low and wet, like the voice a stone might have if you winched it up from the deepest, most lightless pit. It was the rumble of mountains falling into dust, the sound of a tombstone cracking in half. It came from the central figure, the one with the crested helm. He was a mere silhouette in Agon’s vision, a black shape against the incandescent blaze of sunset. He spread his arms wide, as if in greeting. “You return to us.”

Agon said nothing. He had some words, he knew that, but they were not coming to mind now. All he could feel was fear: fear for Eilonwy, fear of these strange things, fear of their unseen mistress. She was nearby, he could tell. Watching. Waiting. That was her way.

He pushed down his fear. It was supposed to be wrought out of him. It was unseemly. To quell it, he raised one hand and drew the hand-and-a-half sword. The second it cleared his scabbard, the other two figures tensed, but Agon merely thrust the blade point-down into the dusty ground between his feet and folded his fingers over it.

The figures stepped towards him. They all moved together, as though the same hand tugged all of their strings. They stepped out of the glare and into the shade, and Agon saw them clearly for the first time.

All three were men, or at least man-shaped. None was Agon’s height, but they would have towered over the largest orc, and their frames were thick with muscle. Agon had taken them to be figures in armor, like himself, but he saw now that he had been incorrect. They did not wear their armor. It was  _ part _ of them, merged into their bodies so thoroughly that it was hard to tell where the armor ended and the flesh began. What he could see of their skin was the pallid grey of corpseflesh, here and there marked by knotted scarring or thick, black stitches. 

The creature to his left was squat and compact, with broad shoulders and thick, brawny limbs. Its legs ended in thick, dirty nails that bit into the dirt like hooves. A short, stumpy tail twitched behind it, tipped with an iron barb like a siege grapnel. A mismatched array of armor plates had been riveted directly into its flesh, and old blood mingled with oil wept from the joints between plates. Its arms were heavy with torcs, some of which pierced the grey flesh beneath. Where its hands should have been were two jagged axes, the blades of which were festooned with what looked like dozens of human teeth. Worst of all, though, was its face. A peaked helm melded into its skull, the nasal bar projecting down where a nose should have been and melding into the flesh of its face. Two deep-set black eyes, barely visible beneath the folds of grey skin, glittered with dim malice. Its mouth was an inhuman horror. It took up half the thing’s head, and as Agon watched, it opened still wider, distending like a snake’s as the thing’s throat unfolded. Its jaw was like a lamprey’s, circular and filled with concentric circles of razor-sharp teeth. It inhaled and blasted a bellow of foul, carrion-stinking air at Agon.

The horror to his right was a misshapen, pustular thing, tall and spindle-thin like a man who had been stretched out on a rack. It was nearly Agon’s height, but less than half his breadth. It had been wrapped in chainmail, which was secured to its body with heavy bronze hooks that dug into its ribs. It had no mouth at all; where it should have been, the metal of its gorget interfaced smoothly with its face. Weeping sores covered its exposed forehead and cheeks, and its nose had partially rotted away, leaving a whistling black hole in its face. Below a jutting, pugnacious forehead its face was cratered with one massive eye, crystal-blue and hateful. Its arms were too long and too thin, with too many joints; they were swaddled in rags, all stained with old blood and pus, and wrapped in chains. The chains led to a meteor hammer that the creature held in both hands, idly swinging it in a lazy circle.. The hammer’s head was a pitted and corroded sphere the size of Agon’s head, covered in barbs and irregular clawlike protrusions. They seemed to twitch, as if tasting the air.

The third figure, the one who had spoken, was the most fearful of all. He did not look shriveled or decrepit. His helm was like Agon’s, fine and topped with a mighty crest. It was not on his head, though, but merged into it. His jaw hinged visibly as he spoke. Chrome steel threaded beneath his skin. His breastplate had been worked to resemble a man’s abdominal and pectoral muscles, but the muscles flexed as he breathed. His legs terminated in lifelike metal feet worked to look like armored sabatons.

His eyes were hazel, and they watched Agon carefully. They were the eyes of a man, not a beast. His nose was a fine, chiseled thing, not a lump of flesh; his cheekbones were high and aristocratic. His jaw was heavy and clumsy-looking, but when he spoke, his voice was erudite in all the ways Agon wasn’t.

“Brother,” he said again. “There is no need for that sword. You have come to us freely, have you not?” He gestured at the lamprey-mouthed monster. “This is Her Voice. On my other side is Her Gaze. I am Her Will. And you, brother… you are Her Glory.”

Agon stiffened. He found a word at last. It rumbled up out of his chest.

“A-gon.”

Her Will shook his head. His stiff jaw could not smile, but he appeared to be trying. He took another step forward, and his brothers came with him. Her Voice began to growl, a bestial sound.

“No, brother. You have forgotten who you are. That’s all right. She forgives you. Come with us, come home, and all will be well.”

Agon shook his head. His fingers tightened around the grip of his sword. He could sense a tension in the air, a sense of anticipation. It was as fragile as a soap bubble.

“You’ve made a friend, I see,” Her Will said. His eyes flickered to Eilonwy, resting under her tree, and Agon’s pulse hammered in his ears. “She can come, too. Mistress Nerra will be pleased to meet her.”

Time seemed to slow for Agon. Something inside him snapped.The hand-and-a-half sword jumped up to shoulder height and he roared like a lion. He lurched forward, and the wrought ones closing on him charged as well.

Her Will stepped back into a ready stance. If he was discommoded by the armored giant bearing down on him, he showed no sign. He extended his arms outward and a pair of bone-white swords flicked outwards from his arms. They unfolded like a serpent’s fangs with an audible  _ click _ and his corpseflesh fingers closed around their hilts. The blades themselves were jagged and knotted with teeth and barbed hooks. They glistened wetly in the fading light.

Before Agon could reach him, something plowed into his left side. It was the lamprey-like Voice, its inhuman jaws gnashing and biting. He batted at it with his left hand and its teeth tore into his gauntlet. A shred of metal ripped free and Agon stumbled backwards, his momentum arrested. Her Voice windmilled its arms at him, its axes flashing. Agon barely managed to bring his sword up in time to block them. The blade caught both descending axes and stayed them in midair.

It was smaller than he was, but Her Voice was monstrously strong. It raised the axes again and hacked at Agon with manic speed. He had to give ground before its assault. The whole time it was bellowing and raving at him. One of its hooves lashed out and kicked him in the knee and his leg buckled.

Fury seized him. Fury, and something more. Eilonwy was out there counting on him. Eilonwy needed him. He could feel something crackling in the air between them, some connection, and it gave him strength. He shoved Her Voice backwards and lunged towards it, hacking down from above with his sword. It caught the blow on one axe, but the impact drove it a step backwards. Agon pivoted and struck it backhanded across the jaw with one massive gauntlet. Teeth and bloody froth scattered everywhere, and the creature let out a hideous squeal.

Something heavy struck Agon in the back of the head. His vision flashed white for a moment and he reeled. He staggered backwards and turned in time to see the meteor hammer coming in again. This time, he ducked backwards at the last second. Her Gaze hissed in frustration and twisted the barbed chain with its fingers. The hammer swept around, seeking him out like a living thing. Agon rolled beneath it and it swung by a hand’s breadth overhead, shaving the tips of the plumes from his crest.

He had given Her Voice space, and now it came in again, spitting broken teeth and keening like a banshee. Agon parried the first swing of its axe, dodged the second, and caught its wrist in his hand as it descended. It struggled, but he was larger and strong. He wrenched his wrist in a vicious jerk and felt the thing’s arm snap. It screamed, a hideous sound that stabbed pain into Agon’s ears and left his helm ringing. He swept his blade around and severed its other hand cleanly. Thick, dark ichor jetted from the wound and splashed across Agon’s armor. The stricken creature lunged at him, its nightmare jaws gnashing, and he put his sword through its gullet. Both of his fingers wrapped around the pommel and he did not stop pushing until a foot and a half of blade burst forth from the back of its head.

It sagged, and the weight of it tugged the sword out of Agon’s hands. He had no time to recover it. Her Will was coming at him, grim and determined, moisture flicking off his ossuary blades. The first one scraped against Agon’s armor; the second bit in under his roundel, unerringly seeking out the vulnerable joints and spearing into them. It bit into the flesh of his shoulder and Agon bellowed in pain. He stumbled backwards, clutching his wounded shoulder. Inside his armor, blood trickled down his arm. He was not thinking now-- what he was doing could not properly be termed thought-- but he knew that he had to finish this fast. He was wounded and bleeding, and he would continue to weaken. And right now, he didn’t even have his sword. 

The meteor hammer slammed into his right knee and bowled him over. Her Gaze had circled around him, trying to flank him while its brothers kept him busy. He fell awkwardly but managed to turn it into a roll. The paired ossuary swords speared into the earth inches away from him, so close that he could see the patterns in the bone. Old bloodstains covered both blades. The meteor hammer whistled in from above, and Agon threw himself sideways seconds before it thumped into the dirt where he had just been. Its chains clinked as it retracted. Agon kicked out wildly, forcing Her Will to take a few steps back. The wrought one chuckled and flourished his swords in a mocking salute. “Come with us, brother!” he pleaded. “It’s not too late! Do not make us carry you back to her in pieces!”

Agon managed to climb to his feet again, but stayed low in a crouch. Her Will was between him and his sword. When he tried to feint forwards, the ossuary blades blocked his path. He could hear Her Gaze’s footsteps on the grass, circling around behind him. He tensed and waited. 

The meteor hammer whisted as it flew through the air. Agon sidestepped it without looking and his arms shot out. He grabbed the chain and wrapped his fingers tight around it. Its barbs dug into the gaps in his gauntlets, drawing blood from his fingers, but he ignored the pain. He yanked, and the gangly monster stumbled off its feet. Agon put his back into one massive heave, and Her Gaze’s feet left the ground. It flew through the air towards him, tugged by the chains around its arms. It landed heavily in the dirt at Agon’s feet and he bent to pick it up, dropping the chain. He lifted the struggling thing in both arms and brought it down on one knee. There was a sickening  _ crack _ and it went limp in his arms. He tossed the bloody bundle onto the ground and faced Her Will alone.

The creature darted forward and launched a flurry of jabs at Agon. Its sword points stabbed like knitting needles. A few of the blows pricked his flesh, but most slid off his armor. Agon darted past it, catching a shallow cut across the side of his neck in the bargain, and wrenched his sword free from Her Voice’s bloated corpse. He turned and held it in a guard position. The two combatants circled for a few seconds, each testing the other. Her Will was fast and inhumanly strong, but Agon was much larger and more powerful. What’s more, the rage that had fueled him was still burning. He ignored the blood sheeting down his arm and the dozens of other small cuts. His sword moved in a blur of parry, riposte and slash.

Her Will faltered for a moment. Just a moment, but Agon didn’t miss a beat. He stabbed forward, his blade shearing through the creature’s flank. Steel rings popped loose and a section of chainmail skin sloughed off, revealing the rottenness beneath. Her Will stumbled to one knee. The ossuary blades retracted into his arms with a  _ slurp _ .

“ _ Enough _ .”

The voice blasted off the lid of Agon’s skull, drilled down into the soft grey meat of his brain, and grabbed a hold of his spine. His rage drained away in a trice. His knees buckled beneath him and his fingers went limp. His hand-and-a-half sword clattered away into the dirt.

Nerra was standing in the acacia tree with her arms folded. She wore nothing but a silken headdress, like a wimple, wrapped around her massive antlers. Her secondary horns, tiny bony nubs growing from her forehead, crackled with power. Her face was the pallid white of a skull, the skin stretched paper-thin over the bone. Her eyes were triangles of darkness that wept rivulets of oily black. Two sets of slitted nostrils served her for a nose, and the mouth beneath was a grinning cave full of needle fangs. She was more than six feet tall, but skeletally thin, as though all the flesh had dried up off her bones ages ago. Her dugs were flat sacks hanging limp against a toastrack chest, her torso a flayed horror of leathery black skin. Her tail, a whip-cord tipped with fur, twitched to and fro. One pair of arms was crossed in front of her chest. In her other hands, she cradled Eilonwy.

The girl was still asleep, but moaning fitfully. Agon looked up at her and felt the energy that had driven him drain away to nothing. He reached out one arm, but he was as weak as a kitten. Blackness crept in around the corners of his eyes. He was suddenly tired, so tired. But Eilonwy… she was…

“How sweet it is, when one’s children return home,” Nerra cackled. She lifted one of her free hands and waved her talons. Something began to pass out of Eilonwy into her, something ghostly and ephemeral. Agon felt it leaving him, too, the residue of the power that had burst forth from her body in the orcish village. The sparks that had tormented Eilonwy these past three days began to fade, drawn away like leaves swirling in a wind. She shuddered and then lay still. She was sleeping now, Agon could tell that at once-- not wracked, painful sleep as the magic bled out of her, but real, true sleep. The power that had burned inside her and threatened to consume her was gone. Nerra had drained it away. Little arcs of lightning flashed between her antlers, but she did not seem discomforted. A nimbus of power surrounded her, and she began to levitate down from the tree towards the fallen combatants.

“Oh, my child,” she said, her voice chiding. “You play so rough with your brothers. You almost killed my poor Will.” She cradled the wounded horror and stroked its cheek. “There, there, Billy. You’re safe now. And you, Agon… you and your fascinating little friend here…”

She stroked Eilonwy’s cheek with one talon, and Agon shuddered. He wanted to struggle to his feet, to snatch Eilonwy away, to grab his sword, and…

Nerra smiled. She could read his intentions; his could keep no secrets from her. “How ungrateful, child. You have been away too long, and you have forgotten  _ respect _ .” The last word rasped out of her, and Agon felt it as a bolt of white-hot agony that kinked his spine and buried itself in his guts. He flopped facedown on the ground, only to feel himself rising. 

Nerra had one hand out with the fingers splayed. She twitched them, and Agon rolled over onto his back. He let out a low, moaning gurgle and arched his spine. The pain was inside him, tearing him apart, boiling his organs and mincing his brain. He tried to roar in agony, but the sound that came out of him was a pathetic mewl.

From somewhere a million miles away he heard Nerra’s mocking laughter. “Sleep, child,” she commanded, and he knew no more.


End file.
